Understandably

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Love- is not painful by nature

Human perversion does that

Taking away its unique beauty

In order to claim ownership

Of love itself, all that it derives

Crudely etching one’s inscription

Across some fabric of delusion

 

Pain itself is discreetly infused

When the enchanted emotions

Of love is discolored, then abused

Only those who wish to misuse love

Would dare promote its wreckage

As being a necessity in loves quest

When the truth is, love only- loves

And humans, well they do the rest

 

Lust is who wears that false face

The true thief, of human hearts

Boldly stealing what otherwise

It could never obtain- or touch

Dragging us all most unwittingly

Into depths of sheer darkness

After tethering our deep fears

Submerged, we’re wet embers

 

It is there, in that dark palace

Where we are left abandoned

Far from where love intended

And the only thing we dare rein

Is our own infected imagination

Whilst our hearts beat onward

Its distinct song in silent hope

Our true lover will come along

And rescue us and truth of…love

 

Poet of the Light © 2019

 

 

 

Published by Poet of the Light

Ascribe Where flight became stalled Because fear stood its ground There- is where I- was reborn Where I relearned my reality As broken fragments of a self Where I’ve seen the unveilings Of time, truth, and Holy love Where angels cried and wept For my salvation and healing And I- wept along with them Where fire seared my mission Forged into my soul as passion A combatant for the wounded Of humanities silenced…truths Poet of the Light © 2023 I write meaningful (to me) poetry from my heart and share it here. I tend to approach everyone as a friend until they demonstrate something different. I enjoy having creative exchanges with others, like-minded artists, or writers. Thank you for reading, commenting and your visit. I appreciate all the feedback (good or bad) you care to offer. Feel free to reach out by email for private exchanges if you wish.

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15 thoughts on “Understandably”

  5. “He was still silent about the images he saw behind his closed eyes. It seemed as if he loved this pain, that he loved her as he had loved me, very much, until he died perhaps, and that now he preferred her to me.” – Marguerite Duras, “The Lover”. Your poem reminds me of this quote … it makes more sense within the context of the book 🙂

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