That love is tender

Tender perhaps the rose is,
And tender perhaps the world;
Tender is everything around you
Right down to your curls.

In light man can see,
Every blemish ever made;
In tenderness every thought is conceived
In love, it is said.

Rudimentary are man’s ways
Which he chose to be followed,
For love is never sacred or pristine,
It never wants to be hallowed.

In caresses and kisses it is conceived,
In light it manifests;
In glitz its glamour lies,
In vanity everything it vests.

The measures and parameters all go wrong,
For all are doomed to be doomed,
And every afterthought is a lover’s excuse
To keep on licking his wound.

No tenderness I have to say, for it is infernos I proclaim,
And like a lover, I keep on searching, somebody to share the blame.