By J. Lynne Moore
A perfect love cannot be found,
not as the earth turns round and round.
Mind you now, my heart is pure;
a youthful love, is my offered cure.
Love through the eyes of a child can be,
unblemished by life’s certain agony.
Arrows shot from my cherub’s hand,
carry the promise of an infant’s brand.
Love of snow, clean, flawless white;
‘tis my heart’s desire, for every flight.
But in those whom, time has well burned,
twist the arrow, are left now spurned.
The child within, locked away, caged…
cannot remove blinders, on the heart, aged.
Hope yet flutters and holds my wings aloft;
I loose another arrow, though I am scoffed.
For chance is alive in this Cupid’s heart,
in the hopes of virtuous love, to impart.
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