Love is not a person, love is not a thing
But a rare emotion, said to make hearts sing.
Stories of love, some bad, some good
Almost never end the way one thinks they should.

What is love? A cliché question?
Cruel, hard pain in a fancy dressing?
Love is said to control the heart;
The soft pitter- patter that love tends to start.

Death. What does it really mean?
The end of a life, torn at the seam?
Death. Does it mean that life is over?
Or will you sprout up again, like a fresh spring clover?

Death. Your life is coming to a close
So lay down, relax, and let yourself doze.
For time stands still as you lie in your bed
Would you like to start over or become one with the dead?

Love and death, fathomless concepts.
Hearts bruised and sore, 1000 years slept.
Is there a connection between the two?
Why sir, that question? It's all on you.