Love is going through the deserts of the heart
And the mind, and in the end
Still finding each other.
The painful barbs of our humanness,
Our infidelity, our sheer stupidity,
Mean nothing to love.
It continues on unfaltering into forever,
Carrying the lucky beneath its tattered wings.
Love is for the broken, the scarred, the tired, the weak
It is only through suffering that one can truly understand beauty
That is why art is love,
Why literature becomes a mistress
Why an artist can never be tamed
Nor owned at all.
An artist is the property of
Both heaven and hell – Not even owned by themselves.
And the mind, and in the end
Still finding each other.
The painful barbs of our humanness,
Our infidelity, our sheer stupidity,
Mean nothing to love.
It continues on unfaltering into forever,
Carrying the lucky beneath its tattered wings.
Love is for the broken, the scarred, the tired, the weak
It is only through suffering that one can truly understand beauty
That is why art is love,
Why literature becomes a mistress
Why an artist can never be tamed
Nor owned at all.
An artist is the property of
Both heaven and hell – Not even owned by themselves.
