Don’t speak to me of hollow gold,
Or scripts of silver, bought and sold.
Or scripts of silver, bought and sold.
If love is what you truly bear,
Give me the truth, the breath, the air.
Don’t promise me a bed of roses,
Where every petal perfectly poses.
For a rose without a thorn to keep
Is a garden where the senses sleep.
The sting is where the life resides;
The blood, the truth, where passion hides.
For roses without thorns are plastic things,
Dull and silent, where no spirit sings.
I do not seek a love of glass,
Watching sterile seasons pass.
I don’t need an artificial love,
Or a curated peace from high above.
If you love me, don't promise you won't hurt me,
For a heart that's real can never be sturdy.
Just promise to stay when the sting is deep,
And give me a truth that is ours to keep.
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