those thoughts in my head do a sort of endless pirouette.
those emotions in my heart clamber onto a carousel.
those beliefs in my soul flutter as butterflies might.
but the pirouettes slow down.
but the carousel breaks.
but those butterflies tremble.
fervor without fire.
romance without credence.
promise without excuses.
is hope itself tangible? lest I taint it by touch.
is love itself possible? lest I cease to dream.
is truth itself within? lest I lie to myself.
where does one begin to end?