In my, brief, lifetime there have been many battles lost and won; over hearts come undone and rewoven; over stories that have yet to be spoken into being; over blessings and curses, tears and verses.
Love has been cast, like so many pearls, before the swine; but who can blame a pig for being a pig?
We tell the pig to change his ways, mend a soul to alter appearances. Ah, but those are words for older scars and, really, who and what we are is nothing in the comparison of who and what we could be; will be.
Love comes as a harlot, a wanton, eager for desire and heat. Eager for some kind of belief; the belief that physical attraction is all that is required to make it last.
Love comes as a broken child, lonely and full of grief, eager for comfort and trust. And we all trust love when we see her, because we have been taught to.
Love comes not as a present to be unwrapped, unraveled, undone. Nor merely as a prize to be won. No, Love comes as a thief, a murderer in the night. It steals your soul, sifts through the rubble of your existence, murders your will, shatters your heart. As it breaks, it heals, it conjures and tricks, it flits about in fits.
Love calls upon the pigs and the princesses, it calls upon paupers and kings. It courts death and divinity, plagues baited breath and ribald poetry. It dances through moonlight silences and evergreen wastes; through joy and through pain.
Love has been cast, like so many pearls, before the swine; but who can blame a pig for being a pig?
We tell the pig to change his ways, mend a soul to alter appearances. Ah, but those are words for older scars and, really, who and what we are is nothing in the comparison of who and what we could be; will be.
Love comes as a harlot, a wanton, eager for desire and heat. Eager for some kind of belief; the belief that physical attraction is all that is required to make it last.
Love comes as a broken child, lonely and full of grief, eager for comfort and trust. And we all trust love when we see her, because we have been taught to.
Love comes not as a present to be unwrapped, unraveled, undone. Nor merely as a prize to be won. No, Love comes as a thief, a murderer in the night. It steals your soul, sifts through the rubble of your existence, murders your will, shatters your heart. As it breaks, it heals, it conjures and tricks, it flits about in fits.
Love calls upon the pigs and the princesses, it calls upon paupers and kings. It courts death and divinity, plagues baited breath and ribald poetry. It dances through moonlight silences and evergreen wastes; through joy and through pain.
No comments:
Post a Comment