Why do waves make people love?
Rushing always to the shore.
How can no one hate a dove,
or Solomon’s romantic lore.

Horses, hearts and Hemingway
always leave a trickling tear.
Sunsets, stars, the newborn day,
will vanquish every ounce of fear.

But why do you refuse to know,
that every blade is doubly edged?
Waves can murder with a blow.
Doves will wither on their ledge.

Horses, hearts and Hemingway,
are rotting corpses in the ground.
Sunsets vanish every day,
whilst sharks beneath the bay abound.

Blood and death are also thus.
Flowing gently, crimson red.
Murder calmly welcome us,
as art was made when victims bled.

Withered trees don’t block the sun.
Opened graves root up the weed.
Why must love be light and fun,
without the anger, lust or greed?

Why not mystic dark and pale,
or violent and filled with scorn?
You see wretched, I say frail.
The petals die, but not the thorn.

Beauty lies in every voice.
Everything is lover’s boon.
I do not condemn your choice.
You chose the sun, I choose the moon.