Love is blurry;
Yet it feels so clear.
We may dream, yet never achieve.
For its limits are endless.
The truest form is the point we cease to seek.
Accepting that our quest will continue no more,
Set our sorrows in the dirt, long before the path to end.
But you can always go further,
Love is our morphine.
It is our vice.
An escape from the reality so harshly thrust upon us.
An ideal life we can only but dream to live.
Love is a thought from the hearts of humans,
Yet we cannot reach it.
Love is our reason to begin,
And our means to an end.
For it is a world we do not know,
A creation we cannot create,
A fable we cannot forget.
Love is not ours to keep.
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