The gifted, the wise, the pastors, the wives,
the noblemen, preachers, and poor humble beings,
turn feelings to words in attempts to describe
the emotion of love, if there such a thing be.
Not gifted or wise, no longer a wife,
I stumble through love with the pen of my mind.
It’s lacking in substance and cannot be seen
yet in the market it barters a give and take fee
but the fee is a feeling exchanged for free
so it could be construed as an invalid deal.
Too it is given with no earthly reward
so the gold in our hearts must be ill gotten gains
and the castles it builds are made out of air
so, therefore, love’s castles are not meant to be.
It doesn’t have legs to cross the divide
between mother earth and heavenly sky
so it’s surely not love when we think we see stars.
If love is the greatest, who taught it to play
sweet lilting music to which we all sway?
Its mission I’ll say, but then won’t deny it,
is to find a “something” that’s missing inside us
but whichever, however, it destructs if ignored
and, therefore, must be as if it was not.
What is love? It’s a thought, an idea, a wishing to be,
a prayer, a hope, and the longing in me,
but if one day it knocked, would I even know?