Love of Unknown Origin
We look upon love with fond memories,
Times of indolent longing and gladness,
Eerily overshadowed by that creeping sadness.
Love is the thing we all fear most,
The Bible said it is patient,
It is kind,
Nor does it have the need to boast.
Every essence of which makes love speechless to me,
That there are no words to describe the depth of such a quandary.
Love in the vernacular, is any song so sweet,
Yet tainted, bitter a taste too foul to eat.
It’s rapturous pure and unrefined,
Doubtlessly pretty and infinite in design.
Though much of it is destined to an unruly heart,
It carries such a heavy burden that even death cannot withstand to depart.
That the harder we fall under its paralysing spell,
The greater we are transformed at its loss into a deathly shell.
The price we ultimately pay,
Is grief, anguish and pain.
How can love a thing of such unrequited beauty,
Dissolve into a mixture of immense happiness and unreasonable cruelty.
Love by definition,
Therefore is neither one thing nor the other,
It has no name we can call.
Just timeless, endless and indeterminate.
We take it for granted, like children so impertinent.
Lost in the lustful compounds of this chemical notion,
Our only hope is that there is a cure to be found in some reluctant potion.
Is love but anything just a curse?
A fractured and encompassing disease in which we nurse?
We say love is simple,
But we are too blind to see,
That we are merely a boat on the shore.
Love is vast.
Just as copious and uncontrollable as the tides of the raging sea.
So tears are fruitless,
But, welcomed thus.
For it’s a bittersweet recipe.
One we wish for,
One we will crave for just that little bit indelicately.
© 2011 Alana Bembridge