Perhaps it was a fairytale,
This thing which they called love.
This thing that though intangible,
Was heralded above
The normal humdrum sphere of life.
A dream upon the wing,
Romantic, heady, streaming
Filling emptiness within.
She sought it much with eager heart
And quickly running feet,
Yet fingers seemed to grasp at mist
Its substance failed to meet
Until at last she lingered
And in a twilight’s song
A voice came softly singing
What she’d evaded all along.
She noticed other voices
Soft pleading like her own,
They had no loved one with them
They suffered all alone.
And tending to their plight
She quickly came enmeshed
In a love that was so blessed.
She’d found the very best.
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