Often people ask themselves to define love,
a defiance of common knowledge.
However, I shall save you time for sublimation
as I have done for myself...
To love is to have locked oneself in a room
with a working loom - unable to weave.
To love is to be set on fire by another being,
enjoying sight with a new brightness.
To love is to speak in tongues - wholly inspired
by pains of spires in your stomach.
To love is to seek unsought moments for
no reason, ignoring season changes like
raindrops as rain stops to implore the growth
of those wildflowers you enjoy most,
blind to the fetid mud that surrounds your toes,
distorting the gale force of storms with warmth
from children out of wedlock with hearts as false
as bedrock, their faces red with distraught
at the thought of death - not of themselves but of
something else. To love is to just love, instead.
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