is it really?

Is it really love when we overlook the flaws and embrace them blindly?
Is it really life when we have never felt the pain of giving birth?
Is it really death when we have not lost time in comatose then wake to die?
Is it really a home when no words are said nor tears shed in laughter?
Is it really a promise when we find ways to break it?
Is it really a secret when we know a lot of people already know it?
Is it really poetry when it doesn’t go into the hearts of the longing, the minds of the searching, the ears of the heartbeat listeners or the eyes of the wondering?


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