I can write about the fallen angels and the rise of diabolical demons,

Also, the species that fall in-between; the cryptic humans.
 

I can write about the inner peace and the superficial cacophony,

Also, the myriad universal symphony.
 

I can write about the clear sky and the tempestuous sea,

Also, the nature’s compelling artistry.
 

I can write about that first secretive glance and the last kiss saying goodbye,

Also, the immense affection it brings along thereby.
 

I can write about the long lost love and the incipient romance,

Also, the state when one is in a lovesick trance.
 

I can write about the shallow hearts and the profound heartbreak,

Also, about all the complexities our heart invariably takes.
 

I can write about the love accepted and the agonizing love unrequited,

Also, the silly dopamine responsible for the emotions incited.
 

I can write about the morning glory and the evening primroses,

Also, about their charm in poems and proses.
 

I can write about the blossoming youth and the perishing senility,

Also, the life’s perpetual fragility.
 

What I fail to write is about your mere pretence and my eternally generous love,

Words fall short for a masquerader and a mourning dove.