Oh how splendid and yet so terrible a love can be. It has the sweet aroma of honey that lingers within one's nose long after smelling it, and comforts like sunshine after rain (Shakespeare); but it is also like a gnawing heart worm that strangles and chokes producing constant longing for release. I am of course not referring to the eternal love of God, but to the romantic love that people have for one another, which is far from being perfect... yes I am a cynic when it comes to this. I know from the bite of unrequited affection to mild fancy, to complete domination at the hands of infatuation. No I may be no guru, nor teacher, but I can tell you I have being through the thick and thin of romance and knew of such things that can turn a man back into a boy.
Man will always be fools in love. It seems there are no remedy for this ailment that inflicts us all, impairing our speech, our hearing, our vision, our thinking; it is worst than cataphracs, does more than arthritis, and is one of the more fatal killers of youth since the dawn of time. Wretched beings that we are! But dare I say that men will never survive without love, for it binds us and pervades our thoughts. Indeed it may be an ailment, but it shall also be our greatest joy.
Man will always be fools in love. It seems there are no remedy for this ailment that inflicts us all, impairing our speech, our hearing, our vision, our thinking; it is worst than cataphracs, does more than arthritis, and is one of the more fatal killers of youth since the dawn of time. Wretched beings that we are! But dare I say that men will never survive without love, for it binds us and pervades our thoughts. Indeed it may be an ailment, but it shall also be our greatest joy.
Something stirs in the hearts of men,
That one unmistakable thug
Who pounds upon the door
In places men knows not of
But is brought to grudging awareness
When that fellow funs amok.
He moves with the stealth of a puma,
And attacks like a fleeting cheetah.
He strikes when one is not prepared,
Leaving behind a shell-shocked stutterer.
The anarchist within men's hearts
A budding terrorist.
Yet without men are equally lost,
For a man who does not love is
No man at all.
For a man cannot walk the highest peaks of mountains
Nor feel the ecstatic rush of victory,
Without first knowing how to love,
To pine, to passion, to have infatuation,
For that taste of the exotic, that touch of otherness,
To be consumed and lost in something greater
Better than himself.
That one unmistakable thug
Who pounds upon the door
In places men knows not of
But is brought to grudging awareness
When that fellow funs amok.
He moves with the stealth of a puma,
And attacks like a fleeting cheetah.
He strikes when one is not prepared,
Leaving behind a shell-shocked stutterer.
The anarchist within men's hearts
A budding terrorist.
Yet without men are equally lost,
For a man who does not love is
No man at all.
For a man cannot walk the highest peaks of mountains
Nor feel the ecstatic rush of victory,
Without first knowing how to love,
To pine, to passion, to have infatuation,
For that taste of the exotic, that touch of otherness,
To be consumed and lost in something greater
Better than himself.
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