Love is never near,
To those who think it sounds queer,
To share oneself to someone out of fear,
Of being spurned into the valley of tears
To love is not to own,
To smother one with candy cones,
As if it’s read in a romantic tome.
Love is not learned, it’s ascribed
Its intrinsic impulse needs to be stroked,
Without which love becomes a savage swine,
Untamed, farouche, temerare and vulpine.
Love bourgeons from one’s psyche
It won’t thrive if padlocked inside,
For its pulchritude is interspersed with pins,
Pins that prick to let it squeal of its esoteric grief
Love manifests its sap,
Squeezed from the nectar of our hearts,
Lubricating the squeaky wheels of our carts,
Not to rust when exposed to sun, wind and dust.
The sap won’t run dry,
As long as there is love to make wilted leaves cry,
Its drop quenches the blistering root,
Capable of enriching the soil where it stood,
Only to bend when the wind blows in any mood,
To let the sap perspire
In everyone’s heart inflamed with desire.
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