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| Love | |||||
| It moves Silent. Unseen. Changing all within its path. For better, or for worse, Bringing such differing symptoms of its passing, That those who lack experience, Would swear their affliction was far differing from others. They'd be wrong! Distress, joy, death and life anew. Singularly, in pairs, or all too often together, For those unfortunate souls immersed within its waves. Ensconced in emotions, too powerful too control. Mind blowing conflictions of heart and mind. Those touched will never be at rest again. Some, overflowing with joy, Elation at feelings newly discovered. Meaning, where before was only agony and discord. Then, some destroyed. Laid barren. Laid bare. Crushed by the enormity of loss that envelopes them. Lives crumbling, devoid of reason. Such is the turmoil left in its wake. Yet others still there are, Consumed with longing, Hoping even, That, by some twist of fate, They'll be chosen next. Risking self-destruction for promises of utopia, Though they know not, that which awaits them. And so, with souls such as these, it spreads. This beautiful, cataclysmic virus, Called Love. |
Alistair Mad Scotsman
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