A weed in a field of flowers is,
To you a flower in the desert,
A simple note on crumpled paper is,
To you the greatest comfort.
She is not a lover of red roses,
Innocent lilies speak more to her heart,
The destiny of this friendship she knows,
Yet even for a day she cannot live apart.
If being romantic is being mysterious,
You are more mysterious than the dark seas,
Darling, you come to epitomise love,
But there is no such thing as idealistic in it.
What is perfect merely seems so,
Before Love is acquainted with Woe,
Your small world will come crashing down,
Before it could even grow.
Are the standards set in stone?
The same for everyone known?
Will you change every single time,
In trying to make one your own?
What you have is a true treasure,
In this age of distrust and disillusion,
Your love is greater than any measure,
Not bound by a cretinous condition.
If being idealistic is being unrealistic,
This your love would be feigned,
Then what could ever hurt more,
Than a love that is strained?
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