The Boy

The Boy who is in love,
He stands above all,
with his voice raised high,
his banner adrift,
With the reds and blues and whites, blending
joy to the world, I am fulfilled,
Even when running to the high,
The voice never wavers,
never falters,
always dripping with the red passion
with or without his other,
Because they are
breeze.

There is a lightness in his tenor,
An added lustre to his bass,
his mind filled with songs of summer breezes,
winter strolls along the Neva.
iPods could be written and sung about this love,
but no, there is no need,
for it is already written,
the soundtrack of their Love, Actually.

The Boy who is not in love,
He stands tall,
with his righteous spirit,
I don’t need anyone else,
I can stand on my own.
Who needs a crutch?

He is dedicated to the proliferation of the melancholies,
those bittersweet symphonies,
those everlasting arias,
Who says he’s alone!
The songs that are sung not by the choirs,
for their masses only serve to make him.
Alone.

No, these are sung
With the soprano, solo.
She stands there, calling to him,
Her eternal voice,
reaching ever higher,
to me! To Me! Decants she!
He savours every note,
Like a Lafite,
Every bubble of her,
A Clicquot.

The Boy who is in love,
is a friend of the Boy without.
They share their trials.
Without offering his great emptyness,
to be filled with.
Their tribulations are solved,
with an overwhelming efficiency,
the one in love willing to see,
to lend his love-broadened eyes,
We need not wish them luck,
for they are lucky to have each other,
their brotherhood complete in its duality.

The Boy who is madly in love,
Hears and sees neither.

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