What
is love; but grace and vines, a verdant presence; and what is pain—the depth of
love, to coddle a bruise. Its miracle winds, to feel for stars, and nurture
scars. What is love; but wounded laughs, to witness love writhing: to carry
rakes, to gather leaves, symbolic for seasons. Love is actions, and more
subtraction, to guard for gates; and love is joy, a camouflage of tears, to
whisper, “Love.” We fill it turns, churning our hearts, to gaze and perish.
Love is growth, a silent hope, articulated through love. Love is knowing; where
thoughts are tamed—and more for love. What is love; but kisses firm, the
deepest security. We hold love; and shelter love; and mold love. Where two are
love, are two for death, to blossom as a lotus. We filter love, to reflect for
love, to answer for love; for what is love, but deep protection, an angry love.
To argue love, is not for death, and not to forfeit love; for love is stern,
and love is wild, and often cold. It’s too a fairytale, a type of fantasy,
harnessed by reality. Love is tension; and love is crying; and love is to know
for love; for the sea is motion, where love is light, to grind for love; and
love is building, a solid future, to reproduce for love. Love is kind; and love
is charity; and love is patience. Without these, love is merely longsuffering,
as opposed to pure love. What is love; but a liquid thought, to fraught a palm,
a bit too heavy this love; and more for smiles, to die for love, a taste of
living love. We find for love, along a bumpy road, a mirror for love; for love
is rich—in gripes and grains, to structure love; so more for love, buried in
love, and living love; for what is love, but grapes and wine, and chips and
dip; for love is miracles!
