Friday, October 05, 2007
Love is gentle, love is kind,
love is all things positive;
love can devastate the mind,
vaporize the will to live.
Would Jack and Jill be mad about
themselves absent their gnarly hill?
Would love be love at all without
its coiled, embrangled codicils?
Love’s unrequited, to take
the common case to be the whole:
one oblivious to the ache
that permeates the other’s soul,
a torture reason doesn’t ease,
that logic’s powerless to move;
it's one of love’s vagaries
that only Darwin could approve.
But lightning strikes. People do
meet, and do reciprocate
affection all the time, it’s true;
then they re-evaluate
relationships already sealed,
weigh the pain of leaving with
the anguish yet to be revealed,
the dismal facts against the myth.
Catastrophe in Camelot
could have been avoided had
not Guinevere and Lancelot
usurped the love their vows forbade.
Think of Helen and her boy,
the city sacked, the useless dead;
they traded happiness for joy,
got love’s choruses instead.
And then there are the noble souls
who do resist the sirens’ song;
they learn to sleep on glowing coals
but rarely hold out very long.
Resistance only makes it worse;
passion waxes when denied.
Love has methods to coerce
The only mystery is why:
clearly, love’s a losing game.
Ask the pretty butterfly
about the flower in the flame.