8-Old Love

A sweet ballad about the simple pleasures of a love that has grown old, but stronger. Finding beauty in simplicity.

Old Love

Arm’s Length

 

Sometimes a light can last a lifetime,

Not a memory, mere a moment,

Can pave the way to an endless archive.

Covered by dust and time and age,

With polished poems on every single page.

Of lifetimes of love more powerful than hate.

All the smallest sweet sensations,

Like painting the walls in your favorite color.

A cherished ballad in a colored coat of notes.

Claiming these lavish luxuries,

The softest of March morning skies,

In the virgin air the Blue Jay flies,

Through the joyous waves of ocean dew,

On feathers of anticipation back to you.

 

Basking in a moment in time,

Somewhere deep within existence.

Found in all intension for excited bliss,

Or maybe even a gentle kiss.

Refined with love and time and age,

Like the finest wine,

Caressing your lip with every sip.

Or the bottomless bright of our eyes,

At every first glance they synchronize.

One moment to ignite our flames my friend.

One moment to believe again.

To Absalom and beyond we raise the bars,

On an endless quest for peace of mind.

A treasure hard to find.

Though not impossible, nor above the stars.

 

Grow a path of healthy grass,

Along the barren ground between these lands.

Treasure even the cheapest of trinkets.

Like living the lines of small clichés.

Casualized by care and time and age,

Alive through wordless fits of rage,

From an orphanhearted girl,

Shuffled into a worn out deck.

And a little blind boy,

Who sees enough to understand,

The undiscovered splendor of serenity,

And the importance of simplicity.

 

We heed the distant euphony,

So incomplete without sweet silence.

Disenchanted by the abyss-black noise,

We appreciate our tranquility,

Of unspoken words that must be felt,

Achieved by work and time and age.

Of secret smiles behind the stage.

And the sizzling scent of mint and cherry.

Like a paradisiac appeal.

One of sweet fragrance, though scary.

And that must be fought for and taken,

By someone who meets the day unawakened.

A selfless joy that must be earned.

A jumbled page that must be turned.

Like the heavenly dry touch,

Of paper between my fingers.

Gilded by gold to never sever.

To fulfill the last endeavor.

Bind the book to last forever.

Author's Note

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