Sometimes, it’s better to let the trampled flowers die.
Sometimes, it’s better to keep your words and opinions confined.
Purple ivy may look enticing to touch,
But no love can soothe Wisteria’s curse.
Was Remus a fool then, to think his brother had his back?
Who’s to tell, who was the first one to attack?
Was it Remus himself, who couldn’t see past his greed?
Or maybe so consumed was Romulus that he let his own brother bleed.
So consumed with each other were Pyramus and Thisbe,
That there was no hesitation in their hearts before taking their lives.
But had Pyramus not been so reckless,
Perhaps their love could have survived.
It is said that King Henry the Eighth loved his wife dearly,
Found his Anne beyond lovely, oh yes he did!
But not even his showers of roses and melodies from violins,
Could purge her pure of her carnal sins.
Fickle heart, fickle mind,
How were you to know that they’d disappear even without a goodbye?
You gave them your heart; you loved them with your soul,
You loved them even when you knew you were losing control.
There is, but no salve that can cure this poison,
There is no antidote to soothe a yearning lover’s pain.
Sometimes, you’ve just got to let the trampled flowers die,
You have got to look forward and begin again.