They told me love was gentle, pure, and kind, A place of peace where hearts could safely stay; But love, I’ve learned, can twist and cloud the mind, And turn the brightest blue of skies to gray. I’ve seen their words turn sharp and tempers flare, Yet soon they laugh as if no wound was made; They break, they mend, they curse, they care — A dance of fire and bloom that will not fade. Is this the dream the poets used to praise? A joy that aches, a bond both sweet and wild? It burns, it heals, it blinds, it still betrays, Yet keeps them near — so lost, yet reconciled. If this is love, then let it pass me by — I’ll find my peace beneath an honest sky.