Long ago, my love, long ago, when love, was war. Romance was a pilgrimage, taken by devoted arsonists, that spoke of tender endless self-denial, they were martyred, but lived longer than their death.
Long live them all¡
Long ago, when it couldn't be spoken in loose tongues, when, those that knew of it, knew how it's cursed waters of wary emotion bind. Chastised by their bond with those they liked, love was huge than a fall.
A descend, into madness perhaps, a spiraling into psychopathy, perhaps, discreet empathy, but never a moment of sincere sympathy. It was nice to boast of affectionate company.
Long ago, my love.
Long ago, people endured a lot more for love. They killed bathed in war; millions of bloodbath. Once ignited who can ignore the fire that burns like an Inferno of desire?
When ignited, you cannot even quote the number of a million things you then quite admire. In a person, especially, when you're thinking they're the best thing to have ever happened.
You find no fault.
