Love is a bush of thorns.
The floral beauty out of reach.
Love is wrought with pain and pride,
And only given to the gardner.
Love is as sharp as Cupid's arrows,
Piercing deep and striking true.
Love is an ache that cannot be cured,
Weakening the heart of all it touches.
Love is nothing but a pain,
Giving the lover a cacophonous sob.
And above all, love is a tormented torcher.
When the love is brought into the light.