Why should imperfect man be able
To experience love? That powerful
Affect which can push the ordinary
And bring forth the extraordinary.
Faith, love and hope. The greatest
Of which is indubitably love. The
Possibilities, nearly endless where
Love holds sway. Nothing common.
Not that love has to be glorious or
Spectacular. Quiet love oftentimes
Surpasses that which is bold, loud,
Calling attention always unto itself.
Yet, quiet or blatant, love of a certain
Magnitude does hint at the presence
Of miracles, that which in a twinkling
Of an eye, makes superheroes of man.
But miracles are rare. Those performed
By mortals rarer still. Love, as potent
As it is, does not make gods of those
Possessing it. Only in desperate times.
Forget not however that love too has the
Power to make fools of man. Monarch or
Peasant alike are equally vulnerable to
One as the other. Two faces of same coin.
Petit women past their prime, who never
Lifted naught their whole life. Confronted
With the specter of their child in danger,
Rival easily those deeds of mighty Xena.
Astute men, with minds deviously cunning,
Floored by a beauty, upon whom wealth
Hard earned squandered. Gawking like
Simple minded idiots and losing everything.
I do not suffer fools gladly. But for love,
A clown I will be. Disregarding all but for
She who wields uncontested control of
My heart. In whose presence I’m content.
I am in love, ain’t no denying it. Regardless
Of those who curl their lips in disdain. And
Others who throw whatever ammunition
They can find our way that we may hurt.
Scorning “I” for “We”, relinquishing anarchy
For democracy. Shifting the center towards
Her and away from me. Contented to have
My heart running around beside me, opening
Myself to the very real possibility of hurt, pain.
Yet, so willing, all so willing. Sweetheart, I love you.
