What Is Love

What is love if it be naught for the pricking of the soul and heart?
Torture of the mind and spirit as well, clawing pulling, one from the start.
Is it a natural state for man or is it merely a state created by same
To indulge the raw desires and passions that come and go as do the tides, as does the rain.
Soft words spoken in moments of perfect syncopation with the beat of both hearts
As they echo each other in a orchestrated solo of primitive beating, effected not by light or dark,
On they beat, beat beat, and with each undulation cause more of each subject’s life force to be let out
Till finally in a sound almost animalistic in nature, heads arch, as do backs and finality is with emotion
Bought.

Think ye now on what we have chosen to represent this state of heart, soft spoken hushed sighed out words
Flowers scented, candles as well, oh what a way we do weave our intentions in patterns sharply prepared
as any well honed sword.
Such phrases we use, 'I shall die without you near me', 'I shall starve if I do not taste your kisses.'
'I am yours completely, order me, let me grant your desires,', “Touch me and in doing so move me so I
wish to satisfy to beyond comprehension your passion's fires.”
Grown independent women find they are captured as a wild cat in a man's net,
Grown men find they cannot conceive of being away from this feminine creature for more than a second
Such compulsion drives us to a fevered pitch of state we hardly recognize ourselves
Like the beasts of the field, in the night we roam, seeking, seeking, seeking, till we find the one who holds
our wholeness deep within their own soul's well.

And yet we are creatures that cannot exist without the realization that somewhere in our lives
We have drank the holy wine of the communion of consummation, that our lips do strive
To seek and taste the holy nectar of the lips of our lover, as righteous to us as the host we devour.
Sleep eludes us if our skin is not touching their own, and dawn becomes nothing without reflection
of it in their eyes, nothing but another day if into them we do not gaze to it encounter,
Our heros become Romeo and Juliet, Isolde and Tristan we would in a moment emulate
If we thought no more we could our lover find, and we would be the dead walking from dawn
to night's hour latest.
It sets us free this love we share, one with the other; free to be prisoners of our joined hearts
Freedom defined by the very boundaries of love, the relic precious worshiped and praised by poets
From the moment of its naming and its earliest mark in time when man could speak and to another
it impart.