What if this concept of love,
I think with my skeptical mind,
Is nothing but a mechanical dove –
A dubious savior of mankind?
Perhaps poets have given rich lives
To fantasies created by their imagination,
Whilst the love of themselves and their wives
Is either a frozen pond or a wild conflagration.
There is always the fabled story
Held by innocent girls with sweet eyes,
But a wise person must ultimately query
Whether they have been embracing lies.
Many marriages are bereft of emotion
And exist solely thanks to mutual need.
Countless philosophers have the notion:
They know love’s tree is but a seed.
How many lovers, once on fire,
Sit alone, now staring at the wall?
Does the hand of Death seek desire?
Is the climber destined to fall?
Is she who beats her path alone –
Though it involves hollow, cool pain,
Wiser than the typical love-sick drone,
Standing lovelorn in the freezing rain?
Moviemakers bank on, to be sure,
That beatific love can rise above it all.
The audience buys it like a cure –
Imagining they, too, will soon fall.
Nevertheless, some people do –
Perhaps one pair in a century
Do claim to have found true love,
That which was truly meant to be.
© Jason Merchey 2000-2017
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