Love is everything
you will not expect,
shaping in ways
you did not project.
Love is late and lazy,
often behind, never in time,
a bang at the preordained curfew
hour, always arriving right on time.
It is seldom enough
and a tyrant when it is
too much. Love is kind
of instinctively paying back
in kind, feeling for feeling;
sometimes you give more than
you get, or more than you should have.
It is a card game shuffling harmony
and discord, where the prize can be
peace, or a piece of someone’s poison
persona. Love is as good as it is,
a tinkling chime at your front door
and a tornado when it turns
sour, spreading rage like a disturbed dog
or demented driver, it is the carnage of a disaster.
Body bits and heart bleeds fuel a crematorium’s
bonfire, razing to ash the double-brick bonding
of a pairing no other passion could have fashioned.
Love is feisty, fierce, fiery, fire itself
in which we burn, burn people,
get burned, burn out, sometimes for better.
It is a lightning strike cindering at the same time
dueling hearts on opposite sides of a storm.
It is the happy mishap of having a welder, working
behind the locked eyes of two strangers, suddenly
slipping and binding them, soldering
their searching into one new unintended
address with the seekers finding out each other
is the missing half of their winning number in a
North America bliss-stakes; they have loved out.