Form gives rise to matter -
The meaning of all things
But what gives rise to love?
The heart, the golden rings?
Could it be these are our chances -
The words with which describe -
Is there pattern in the presence -
Or just a lonely scribe?
What gives rise to thought?
The light that circles round
Is there meaning in the madness
The heart that’s never bound?
But what is so perplexing
Is humanity in this spot -
Never looking for the meaning
Only causing rot
But rot is not untrusty -
It does all its things…
Never breaking trust,
Nor trust’s love and golden rings