There was a day like all other days, before our love had changed its ways.
There hope exists without constraints, without that doubt that self-propogates.
As a farmer that plots his tree, and wonders how it might grow to be;
A few seasons pass as a tree may bloom– a farmer waters, tills, and prunes.
From the vantage of the lonely moon, awaits the harvest that can’t come too soon.
And all seems well and all seems right–
Still a day like any other day, when suddenly our love looked a different way.
And when it turned, like diffused light, stretched beyond its stitched up seams;
Consumed in the eyes of Judicious Fate, I felt both our weary hearts irate.
When cool waters do not refresh, but boil loud and burn your flesh;
Words of love become words that pierce, what once was kind now turned fierce.
When love becomes such a daunting thing, and both our hearts forget to sing,
Our love turns to something past, and for a minute there, I thought it’d last.
But it happened there, there was a day. I cannot tell you which, but it changed our way.
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