Love will it be.

And love will it be when you are not around. How empty those
words sound…, with you, not around.

Gentle willows through the brush I have lost my desire to be. What hearts they
be, what love is, how weak it makes me in the knee.

Sometimes I hunger, but most times I would rather die.

What is love, she said…,

These kisses torture me. The image of dove over hill. Far and away, I
shudder night and day. The cold creeping as I gasp for breath. As butterflies
sit in my bowels and make their untimely nest.

What is love, she said….,

Love so hollow, so pale, so cruel, so gentle, and again, again, always
someone’s fool.

I hate you. I hate you.

And I love you.

This is love, she said…..,

Love so red like a rose in bloom. So blue that our eyes to us are untrue. So
black that we are sometimes lost but then again found.

Love is the sound that we all hear and from it’s birth begins a sweet gentle
tear: for our children, for our friends and loved ones, and those who departs
us.

Love. It is the sound. This is love she said….,

“listen.”