The metamorphosis of love began when man rejected love,
For this love grew from a different kind of hate
Slightly delusional, slightly primitive
This love lived so innocently,
That many claimed that it wouldn’t survive
How could it? Crudity never grew out of satin.
The one’s who understood, stood straight.
Almost like they were bringing water to lost gardens
The love like seeds, creeping out from lost harvests and Halloween trails,
The slight bloom happened during raw, sawdust winter
When even in a no-man’s land,
When the petals of snow promised a raked oasis
It wasn’t the rawness that saw this attraction though,
Rather the slight, mellow, slow rapture of closing buds,
The bees seeking honey for honeycombs and cherry blossoms retiring into soft sleeps, cradling this love.
The stagnation bothered the most,
For love promised to never stay still
But even when hate and ego couldn’t tame this being, I wondered what brought this frustration.
The white slicks of time grew pale, scenting trails of grass with mist,
The grass glowing with stalks,
Our own temples hailing the coming of sun,
The gold promised to quiver,
And the sun smiled at the gestures,
For the bonfires were singing love, the airs of love harvesting only more love
The creation of love came from promise
A promise kindled by lost hope,
For when all faiths erected like flames on a candle,
Love needed to dance through all the stripes of grey, color and neon
To arrive when human required it the most and deserved it the least.