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It is ill


Horribly beautiful it is,
the creature grasps us all,
that consumes the strong,
destroying them like a delicate tissue.
Easily engulfing them in flames so powerful,
that not even ashes remain.
We still seek this monster out,
never to harm,
only to offer our lives to this being,
while they make promises of happiness.
How wonderfully sad it is,
that we are granted such joy,
for then it becomes twisted,
so unfavorably grand,
that only sorrow befalls us.
You may ask questions about evasion,
I will only recite repeatedly,
as if I am an toy that know no other words,
'I believe,
I too shall seek out this beast,
I too shall be devoured,
I might try to flee,
but I shall never succeed in so,
for there is no escape.
That is a fact I know to well.'
Some despise,
envy,
or attempt to kill,
this kind evil.
Such a thing is impossible,
for you can not harm what is,
not seen, heard, or can't touched.
It will always live on demolishing all.
For this ill,
foul,
yet benevolent force is,
Love.