We were Unborn, but Now Mature

We were unborn, crooning sores, lost in pleasure, my dear
Amore. The tune was blood, our measured light, the pace of
Love, a fretful price. And withered pride, a humbled soul,
The dawn of grief, and prayerful scrolls. My dear amore,
The glass is buffed, the tears are shed, the heart is scuffed.
And tattered dreams, flood the base, a shattered soul, a
Mystic face. Thus the garden, a spider’s web, the cage of
Life, a crystal ebb.

And now mature, the grackle sings, the song of love, a angel’s
Dream. And prose to heart, we swoon and glide, infused with
Pain, and wisdom’s pride. My dear amore, the tilt of love,
A cosmic flame, and heaven’s glove. Thus the furnace, the
Trial of faith, life to blood, and sore displaced. Hence the
Passion, our walking tear, a hint of death, a flaming fear.