Is it really love?

In the beginning there is nothing;
A playing field without players,
A nightmare without sleep,
A princess locked up in a castle
Without her hero or prince.

At the beginning a song, the sun;
A love that needed to grow,
Hands that were held together,
And eyes that just seem to not close.

A moon shining brighter,
A paradise of perfection.
An arbitrary sense in which love was not being labeled.

In the middle an armor;
A cause that had no bad consequences to the eyes
That blinded by togetherness,
Believed in bodies that had no control
In the questioning of the confusing truth of who to belong to.

A vivid passion,
An uncontrollable soul;
A peace pact made in heaven
That hell was not able to touch.

Looks.
Mirrors.
That after a while broke down into pieces of wisdom.

In the end,
A place of suffering, a place of regret;
A piece of heaven and hell living in earth itself.
And the meaning of it all now had no meaning at all.

Then clearness, sadness;
Tears that by themselves found their way down someone’s face,
Out of a heart, poured by the eyes
That expressed the sentiment in which no truth lies.
A sentiment in which no lie lived And no one survived.