How can it be said so often,

How can it be said so often,

By so many,

With the use

Of metaphor and simile,

To disguise its true intent?

And is this by definition,

Another attempt

At sincerity,

Without provoking the ire

Of the literati,

Whilst fulfilling,

The more complex

Than it might sound,

Task, of describing

Its nature.

To be sincere,

In truth

Is an action, not a word.

And yet

We try to instil

Such formless beauty

Into words that chime.

Is it all too easy

To fall into rhyme?

Does that negate

Their true power and meaning.

Divest the verse

Of subtly and feeling,

Leaving me open

To chastisement,

When reality tells us

That honesty

Is always best.

However, to prevent

These few lines from

Being ignored,

By the pompously perverse

And bored,

I have strayed

From the path of truth

And squandered my nobility,

For the sake

Of their interest.

Rather than acknowledge,

The true creator

Of these lines,

The originator and architect

Of all my designs,

Lies in my belief

In love.

And my love of you.

It is better this way

Do you not think?

Without artifice, pretence

Or preamble

It may be a gamble

But in all sincerity,

No matter how often

They may be whispered

When true and plainly said

These few,

Simple words

Carry such weight,

And are filled

With such a powerful

Magnificence,

That they say it all

To me.

My love for you

Is now,

It is tomorrow,

The next day,

It is the certain truth

That travels in eternity,

And in such company

It will always be.