This is Love

I wrote this one a few years ago:

When whatsoever we feel alive inside of ourselves,

 but that which is preordained by the divine triumphs of our individual souls;

 when naught but the jealousy of what was takes precedence over the living,

 as would the rotting flesh become whole once again,

 so to shall that be brought before us.

 The filth and stench of the golden hemlocks of old drive us to madness in the hopes of attaining that which was,

 and shall never be again.

 When the darkness that resides in all Man comes alive,

 slithering out of the pit which we have built it,

 digging with our feverish desires and frivolous greed;

 then shall the light be extinguished from the candle of our real hope;

 the fires of our hearts smothered by soil.

 Smothered perhaps, but smoldering still.

 When brought into being a dream,

 such thoughts of the peace of man,

 the strength of unity,

 the feeling in our skins that reverberates throughout our being,

 the embers, still glowing, find fuel in our minds.

 They may roar again,

 like they were meant to do,

 warming us with the aspirations of youth, beauty, and I daresay, perhaps love.

 Perhaps, yes, perhaps love is attainable through a dream,

 and only dreaming,

 for what could possibly be powerful enough to awaken that inferno,

 that holy fire that drives the hearts us dreamers?

 What could possibly warm our souls so?

 There is no love, no true love.

 Love is a hug, a kiss, an exchange of body and mind,

 never soul.

 It only serves to stuff full the pit of loneliness in all of us,

 and only for a time.

 We are doomed to that pit eventually.

 But I say this to you now,

 do you believe it?

 Do you believe what I have said,

 the dooming prophecy of it?

 Most of you say no,

 no there is hope,

 there is love.

 But do you believe it?

 Truly?

  Can you?

 You’ve felt the pain,

 the sadness,

 the pit.

 You’ve been there,

 you know,

 it dawns just around the corner.

 So I ask you…

do you believe it?

 I do.

 The pit dwells within us,

 and is constantly close to convergence;

 it is felt by all of us,

 on a unique, individual, horrible basis.

 That much is true.

 But do not expect me to say that a light will shine through it all,

 illuminating the deep caverns of your pain,

 simply because I believe there is hope;

 there is love.

 Love is no fire.

 Love is no blaze from the depths of your heart,

 no flash of light,

 no warmth.

 Love, love is a smell;

 a tingle on the tip of your nose,

 a delightful pluck on your sanity,

 just strong enough to render you useless;

 hatred so deep you could kill for it;

 sorrow so dank you could die for it;

 a hope running as a river through your soul,

 always flowing.

 It is a knowing,

 a thought given form,

 given over to your baser instincts.

 Ask yourself,

 when you loved, did you know?

 Could you feel?

 When your eyes met, did they speak to you?

 Eyes or not, person, place, thing, or simply not,

 it matters not.

 When your eyes meet, do they speak to you?

 Those in love,

 those with love inside them,

 for someone,

 something,

 an idea,

 know of what I speak.

 Love is knowing.

 Not the details,

 not the facts,

 not the truth,

 not what is or isn’t;

 the soul.

 The spirit.

 The essence.

 Knowing an existence.

 Love is speaking,

 speaking not with words, but with yourself.

 Your speech,

 your quirks,

 your thoughts,

 your dealings,

 your moods,

 your minds;

 this is you.

 And love is not to use it talk,

 so much as act out your very being.

 When you are you, and they are them,

 and the eyes of your souls meet;

 This is Love.