Love Is Brutal

Love is brutal. I have seen men tall and wide, quiver and wail in the name of wretched love. This deathless being will take you hostage, making you so vulnerable and susceptible to its own suggestions. To the world you may appear as a deranged individual, yet they do not know that your pulmonary artery has formed a noose around the heart and now tightens with each breath. That you cannot fathom how you have fallen victim to this disease, and how so willingly you sacrifice fragments of your soul to the one whom you love. And as the world mocks these blessed martyrs, I have heard them utter, may love render you worthless, as it has done so to me. Being a poet I can impulsively recognize a man in love. A single verse will suffice in summoning tearful eyes and a chest ripped open by words, leaving their shame glimmering and exposed for the world to see. 

So when I hear a voice recite it's love for God and his Prophet, my heart is often cast with doubt. Your sacrifices are null and your breath whispers for someone else. Lovers are inept of logic and reason, fully committed to each and every desire of their beloved. Then how is it that I boastfully declare my love for those I wage a war against on a daily basis. If prayer is an opportunity to meet the one you love, then five would simply not be enough. If I loved then surely I'd want my beloved to converse with me? Then why is it that the verses of his voice lie on the top shelf, veiled by dust. The phrase 'I Love' is enough to make hills and mountains shake with disbelief, and yet I idly sit and make this declaration. Perhaps I don't love, I simply believe. Then the one I believe in said, you can't believe until you love your very own life and desires less than you love me. So where does that leave us?


How do I describe you? I am afraid they wont understand. How do I say those endless glances and soft smiles are the most pleasant memories I posses. Defeated and crippled by your presence, I would generously spend my years suffering from this affliction. I may take a quivering and place it at your doorstep, but what will I explain to those who have loved only what intellect permits. You have acquired the splendor of the sun and retained the joy and charm of the moon. To remember you is to paint a splendid spring on a withering landscape, it is to flood a gently flowing river and draw the sunbeams greeting the morning dew. What use is understanding my poetry, my sentiments, when not one has been able to understand my muse.