[I thought it time I wrote a poem about love. Why not? Everyone is doing it. Hold on, kiddies, this gets tedious.]
People fall into it,
It does them in in sneaky steps,
Or outright in a flash.
It grabs their hearts,
Then breaks them,
Or de-chests them in a dash.
[Need elbow room, try four lines…]
Then I got to thinking:
Love shows in other ways.
Let’s count’m out and then decide,
Which horse we’re doomed to ride.
Ephemeral or eternal?
To speak of ‘Love’ it seems,
I’m still not sure as yet I know,
The better way to go.
Is it free or heavy,
The price that’s asked by Love?
It takes but pennies at a time,
Then steals your last thin dime.
Will it break your back each evening,
Or calm your worried brow?
Will it crush your heart or let it rest,
Where it beats beneath your vest?
No two poets will agree,
On how Love comes to roost;
Calculated – without a fuss,
Or serendipitous?
Does Love soothe your soul or frighten,
When it clutches at your heart?
Is your dance of joy or dread,
When Love messes with your head?
It’s both evil and angelic,
This fickle thing called Love.
It might make your heartstrings swell,
Or dispatch you straight to hell.
That heartheld spot within your chest,
You diagnose the pain:
Be there some malignant sign?
Do tests come back ‘benign’?
Would roses red or white I ask,
Epitomize my Love?
Purely posh said one young fellow,
Who bought a dozen yellow.
Love resides in hearts and brains,
The bards are wont to say.
Neither, I demur, for when love pains,
It’s in my stomach it remains.
Purest potion, putrid poison,
Which weeps Love’s bottle there?
Are you brave enough to wet your chin,
Unknown the drugs within?
Engineered or mystic magic,
How does this Love thing work?
Should you brace or scaffold it,
Or at its mercy sit?
Love runs deep with truth or lies,
As it rushes through its course.
Oh, please believe the troth declared,
Unless of course, you’re scared!
Is Love noble or is it base,
When it twists you to and fro?
Does it make you want to cry,
Or spread your wings and fly?
[Still not working. Maybe six lines? Nah, give it up.]
—
© SP Wilcenski 2020
Originally on Prose as “Random Thoughts About Love”