Fools and love the question burns,
chicken, egg the answer.
For it seems they come combined,
the dance within the dancer.
Quick step, slow step, foxtrot, rumba,
feel the sway and fall right under.
Pain and joy and sleepless nights,
sense and action torn asunder.
But who would want a perfect life,
cocooned in certain folds?
No chance of silent, secret smirks
at memories of old?
