I’m wasting life by dreaming of
our love,
As if the fortunes that I read
are fraught
With horribly perceived
predictions of
The ways the stars above our
heads align;
And I may write myself the tender
fool
Who, though astute, in such a way
was blind
To all the chance that fate has
to be cruel.
I don’t agree with such a
tortured way
Of looking at the world that
carries me:
A man who loves, believes, and
does not stray,
Is his own master for eternity.
If all this arrogance is my
downfall,
So let it be, for you are worth
it all.
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