My colour was love,
Like a spirit, soaring above.
What is this love?
Does it fit neatly, like a glove?
And how can love be defined?
It’s something for which people pine,
It is not yours, nor is it mine,
So where do we draw the line?
Love can be magic, love can be golden,
Especially when to someone you’re beholden,
Love can be hidden, love can be blind,
(is that why it we can not find?)
To search for love, we need to be
Patient, waiting, or it may flee
And what if we can’t get it back?
What if we do lose the knack?
Care must be taken from hereon in,
To ensure that love does not go in the bin.