I pose a question 
What’s more evasive? 
Love or the memory of dreams as we waken? 
..and what’s more feared than death? 
What’s two faced like a cheek to the mirror’s edge? 
So oppressive at it’s end, 
that it seems to be defying the obsession it begins 
while the pessimist defends that it was never love 
but this, in itself, could prove that it was 
It coos at the barriers of sex 
daring it to stifle the life within it’s breadth 
..yet crucified when assessed, 
for at times, an enigma, it confuses and offends 
pews in a church over two-sets of men 
or the views of a congress on the age of consent 
So I ask, what is this that’s so mystic? 
The last fantasy we accept, yet insist 
What is love? 

What is love? 

Is it just another God for us 
to dream into existence, like mirages of 
crucifixions, Muhammads and Allahs, 
to reclaim the sleep which our questions once robbed? 
Is it a purpose? The lonely feel worthless, 
so is this why we spend time searching to unearth it, 
and those who can’t find it receive it in their church, 
like it’s coming from a God if it won’t from a person? 
Oh, the tricks we insist upon, 
to make magic seem like realistic thought, 
it’s like what’s fictional or not 
is defined by the comfort or distress it may cause 

But is the question worth posing? 
And If answered, could we find it for the lonely? 
Then place it in a pill to deplete the “if only”s 
that plague those who’ve loved or those who’ve never known it 
The loveless, now is that just a sickness? 
Waiting to be cured by a chemist in an instant? 
A pestilence for those who are distant, 
which symptoms are prayer for someone just to miss them 
Or is it all just disappointing 
like stars falling to the glow of a distant morning 
made complex by it’s witnesses, 
like the dissection of simple arithmetic 

What is love?