The Mystic of Love's Mundane

There was that day when the flowers did not fade
And was perfect in its own little way.
When the morning was fresh with dew upon my breast
And the heat of the sun it did not molest.
The singing of the birds was the sweetest song ever heard
And the playing of squirrels brought to me new life unfurled.
When did it happen, where did it go away
And the music that I heard was silent most of the day.
It was as if it drifted off shore so far away
And I looked all around because the next day it was still gone away.
I looked and looked here and there but no not a sound to be found
I asked others to see if they knew where it might be.
In my heart it left an image that no one else could see
But it was there deep inside of me.
I found it hide in the everyday life of toil and pain
It was there so very worn and so very drained.
I looked at it and said, “Hey, my friend, what is your name?”
It replied, “It is mystic the mystery of the mundane.”
In the beginning of love there is the mystery of the flame.
We wonder will it ever be more than just a game.
As the time together the mystic begins to grow
It produces a love that seems to overflow.
As the long days begin to come and go
So the mundane also begins to grow.
The mystic begins to fade away
But where does it go on that dreadful day?
It is drifting off shore where both may see it no more
So to keep it from a float we must both get inside the same boat.
Yes, to be lost in the mundane and no mystic in the heart to reign
Can only cause such grief and dreadful pain.
So to keep the fire alive I must fuel with more than just my life.
Ask them on a date to a place you haven’t ate, to a new adventure far and wide and keep the flame burning high.