Dilemma

 

What's the reason for her being dear

Despite her making everything clear?

So turbulently do my thoughts sway

Making it hard to move on and move away.

Keats would be happy if I continued to love, but

Gibran would toss me on a burning stove. 

It is love that forms this scene's base.

Yet it acts bizarre in two different ways.

I'm sure my life will never be the same,

Even if I become rich and attain fame.

For somewhere else is my heart

Without which there is no worthwhile art.