Its written in the stars my love,
In the dreamy, cloudy, white milky way,
The summer breeze whispers it,
The shallow waters swallow it,
Its written of your arms around mine,
An intricate message hidden in the folds of the sky,
In the blooming flowers,
That long ago ricocheted against the moon,
But no longer does the fire blaze
Like it did long ago with you.
Because it is written.
Our names create a puzzle,
In the deepest of the lakes,
In the branches of the pine,
Dusted with snow, Crunchy with ice,
The wind blows for our eternity.
For it is written in the designs of the snowflakes,
In the depths of the glistening sea.
It is written in the harsh crimson,
The soft peach,
The endearing yellow,
And the blue so light it could be bleached,
Yes, its in the magnificent sunsets,
We watched on the beach.
The shining bulbs of the city below us,
As we fly high in the sky,
Shifting, singing, sighing higher,
The cities blaze courageously,
As they catch our eye,
With the words that are written in the lights.
And in the blood of the helpless,
Which has been spilled at war,
In the faces in the mountains,
Stagnant air of the empty houses,
The fire in the eyes of the beholder.
It is written.