Love: A poem 

Isn’t it love above all that we cherish? 

The gift for which we earnestly wish? 

It is the what, where, why and which 

Of both the poor and the rich 

Love’s lighthouse time’s distance bravely outwits 

It is not infatuation’s crevice nor obsession’s pits 

The selfless, unconditional throb of a mother’s heart 

A lover’s pushing the cart on a most tortuous path 

But clouds its seamless sky with tragic vested motives 

A heartless betrayal of trust, a careless broken promise 

Laid waste a rolling meadow in a cruel selfish twist 

Or a tyrant’s iron slapped on an innocent’s helpless wrist 

Creation was begotten out of God’s utter loneliness 

Love He gave it, but He also gave it free will 

The ideal of His love cracked with this imperfection 

Love can only return with His creatures’ introspection