Love is an overpacked suitcase,
With golden, reflective ballgowns inside,
That queens and pharaohs have donned,
In the timeless dances of romance.
Along with the gowns, there are capes
Beset with jewels of every color
That glint like his eyes do
The moment he lies
You see, on top are the ballgowns,
But unpack deeper,
And you find photographs,
Old socks and shoes,
With holes in their soles.
The suitcase is filled to the brim now
The clothes are stuffed and compacted
So that they wrinkle and decay
Into a moth eaten, musty hospital gown.
The only way to save them
Is to unpack
And place them in your wardrobe.