I feel sore to say that love can be conditional
It can be brokered over the bridge to the other side
It has compromises, like a farmer selling his
favourite sheep for money. It is golden for innocents
who don’t know it, but feel it; until the world opens up
And passion is a fire, until it burns your fingers
An illusion is always more beautiful than reality
Even a fantasy only remains fantastic till attainment
We can’t dispute that love is vindicated by the respect
for the order of punishment. It can be spoilt by
too much overindulgence, which is violence on
character. We can make with love and break with it.
We mend with love, and we can end it.
Love can be a lifeline not a wine. Better dispassionate
than inebriation. We become obsessed by fantasies,
wherefrom we have no backsides to eject the shit.
We have two faces with love. Because,
we hate because of it. Sacrifice and letting go is true love
But there is no omnipresence of altruism. We make choices
Love is not indiscriminate. Generous to some and
ungenerous to others. It is not a collective noun.
And yet, as I walk the street with many faces, feeling
the shame of doubting love and feeling my miserliness
of affording it to a precious few. I pause at a
many-branched tree with many leaves
and contemplate God
montes-musings.blog 