by Marcus B. Christian
Love is an inconvenient thing --
Out of nowhere it slips,
And grows into something that saves or slays,
Or something that binds or grips;
And it sets a seal upon one's lips.
Love has its own peculiar way --
Knowing its own blind art;
Bending strong souls like reeds to the wind,
And then -- when it does depart --
Stamping in frantic and frenzied pain
A signet upon one's heart.
Last updated November 13, 2022