We
love this thing called love, a vault of emotions, leaking through crevices;
forever to need it, else for weary, to flirt at unawares. We, too, are immune
to love, to gather love, to live it a bit torn. If only to know love, sheltered
in a soul, to favor souls. We give with distance, ever to ask, “Are you worthy
of love; and Would you cherish love?” I speak for love, twisted for distorted,
a product of love: ever for stripped, a naked love, running through the
vineyards; and there is love—a crying love, a joyful love; where love is
aggravated, and love is hostile, and love is delicate. Watch for love, counting
petals, to sprinkle upon satin sheets; and love lives, if only to die, to
rebirth love. I feel for love, traveling afar, a bit of an outcast; for love is
light, and misunderstood, to shine through darkness; and love is rich, in a
violent world, to give for love. We thirst for love, to abuse love, and cherish
love. It’s twofold, a living paradox, to control love; but love is free, ever
for leaping, landing in the midst of love. Love seeks for love, ever to speak
it, this thing called love. I know for love, the onus of love, to carry a
paradox; and this for love, and love for love, and love and shame; but art to
give, the pain of love, to believe in a precious love; where love is shameless,
and strictly pure, expressed through humans. Can we see through love, the spark
of human hands, to claim the richest love. How could it be other—than that that
we are, where love is reflection; but there’s a love, a grounded love, as heavy
as, Love; where ours is us, and love is speckled—and riddled with a sullen
yearning; for love is captured, the dungeons of love, for love to give freely;
and this is love, to welcome for torn, a welkin love.
