Spilled Ink

What Is Love?

A stranger once asked me, 'What is love?'

I heaved a sigh,

and came up with a reply:

Love is the sweet cry of a babe in a mother's arms;

'tis the precious hope of those to war had gone.

Love is the sunshine of trees in Winter's reign,

and the rain longed by land when drought comes in.

But to a shattered man, such as I,

love was the brightest light my eyes had seen;

the blissful song I sang in a long forgotten dream.

Love... Love was the paradise

my tired and lonely feet had been.

Alas, when it left

I lived in shadows once again.

My chest twisted in pain,

as agony filled the air I breathed in.

And so I took a knife and pierced my heart,

for I know not of life when we're apart.

Indeed, what is love?

'Tis the question always asked,

and the question seldom answered.

But to a shattered man, such as I,

love was once the reason for my every breath;

and then, it was the bridge that led me to death.

******