Love Remains A Question

Love
remains a question.

Its meaning.
Its virtue.

Its essence—
an illusion.

Unanswered
through the ages,

yet legislated
in poems.

Always as handsome
an eloquence

as the muse
himself.

And yet,
love
remains
a question.

For none
who’s fallen
knows how to rise

above its delusions,

overcome its erosion

of the very spirit
it envelopes
in its enigma.

Oh, do ponder this,
and you will realise

that love remains

untouched,

unseen,

unfathomed.

For many do condemn it
‘the tricks of the mind’—

controllable,

surmountable,

enslavable.

And yet,
love remains

a force

as strong as life
or death itself.

Their only rival.

Yet, still vital
to their existence.

Unmatched,
unparalleled
by any other emotion
we call our own.

For love

is never our own.

It belongs to the one
we decree it to,
and their being becomes
the source of ours.

We must acquiesce to it
so the ages run.

Love
is a question
no more.

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