Love is the death of stern reason,
The stealer of souls which feasts upon the dreams of men
Leaving behind a wry, dessicated husk of sorrow.
Love is a dagger which seeks your heart
And strikes you in the back.
Love is an open wound,
Bleeding away your will to persevere,
Rending your sense of self and identity.
Love is an empty goblet at your dinner table,
Such a pretty cup, but never shall it quench your thirst.
Love is a Siren, singing sweetly,
Beckoning men to die on the rocks below.
Love is a gift so often given,
But so rarely received.
Love is a lover's dream calling
Man to woman to man, yearning
For eternal rapture, fleeting,
Love is an immortal spirit, dying...
Or was it ever living?
Such is the way of such words as "love".
George Chadderdon © 1992