The Eternal Question

Love? What's that?

 ‘Twas the season that was

For my warm affection for thee has withered.

With no hope for rebirth,

This heart, thou hast made frigid.

 

For but small and insignificant reason

It may seem to have been the cause,

But, pray thee, abide my forgivings

And listen to my appeal.

 

Love, by very nature, is undefinable.

It is not is, nor is what was,

Nor is what will be, nor everything, nor nothing.

Love is not a period but a question mark

 

Though an enigma it may be

There still is some certainty,

That love from one side kills

That love unreturned is hurt unhealed.

 

To be struck by radiance is inevitable;

To succumb to it is fatal;

To resist it is useless;

To stop it is impossible,

 

But love from one side is not love

For what is love but something mutual?

Unrequited, love may be fuelled by hope

Though hope, when false, is worse than deception.

 

So reader, gather forth,

This thought, for the love of love:

If someone be enamoured with your radiance;

If someone cast a lovely eye on thee,

 

If you requite it, make it so,

For your love shall be the envy of angels,

But if you do not,

Hurt him, break him, crush him, end him,

 

For nothing is worse in life

Than hoping for something,

Getting back nothing,

But continuing to hope nonetheless.

 

‘Tis not poetry to hold on to nothing;

‘Tis poetry to find something beautiful,

But if your grasp is wasted on dead air,

What then are the means for that to happen?

 

Let go and live.

Let life trudge on.

Let all that is not love pass on.

And let that which is love thrive.