Looking through you...

What inspired this piece...

How Can I Give You Love?

How can I hold you in these arms
After I’ve beaten and broken your heart?
How can I protect you when I’m under attack?
After I’ve let you down - why would you want me back?
How can I give you love - If it’s something I’ve never known?
After I’ve shattered your dream - we both end up alone...

How can I promise you’re the only one?
When the night disappears I’ll be back on the run
How can I promise this time it’s real
When this heart of mine has forgotten how to feel?
How can I give you love - when I’ve got nothing left to give?
After I’ve taken every bit of you - How we both gonna live...

How can I give you a life I have squandered?
Alone in this world - you know I have wandered
How long have I waited to taste your kiss?
Only to end up in a moment like this
So how can I give you love - when I don’t even know how to trust?
After I’ve conquered your mind and your soul - all that is left will be dust...

Victor Vogt - as real as Dash Deringer
Photo by: Lorena M.

oh, tell me the truth about love...

Some say love's a little boy,
And some say it's a bird,
Some say it makes the world go around,
Some say that's absurd,
And when I asked the man next-door,
Who looked as if he knew,
His wife got very cross indeed,
And said it wouldn't do.

Does it look like a pair of pyjamas,
Or the ham in a temperance hotel?
Does its odour remind one of llamas,
Or has it a comforting smell?
Is it prickly to touch as a hedge is,
Or soft as eiderdown fluff?
Is it sharp or quite smooth at the edges?
O tell me the truth about love.

Our history books refer to it
In cryptic little notes,
It's quite a common topic on
The Transatlantic boats;
I've found the subject mentioned in
Accounts of suicides,
And even seen it scribbled on
The backs of railway guides.

Does it howl like a hungry Alsatian,
Or boom like a military band?
Could one give a first-rate imitation
On a saw or a Steinway Grand?
Is its singing at parties a riot?
Does it only like Classical stuff?
Will it stop when one wants to be quiet?
O tell me the truth about love.

I looked inside the summer-house;
It wasn't over there;
I tried the Thames at Maidenhead,
And Brighton's bracing air.
I don't know what the blackbird sang,
Or what the tulip said;
But it wasn't in the chicken-run,
Or underneath the bed.

Can it pull extraordinary faces?
Is it usually sick on a swing?
Does it spend all its time at the races,
or fiddling with pieces of string?
Has it views of its own about money?
Does it think Patriotism enough?
Are its stories vulgar but funny?
O tell me the truth about love.

When it comes, will it come without warning
Just as I'm picking my nose?
Will it knock on my door in the morning,
Or tread in the bus on my toes?
Will it come like a change in the weather?
Will its greeting be courteous or rough?
Will it alter my life altogether?
O tell me the truth about love.

Desire