This is Love
Occasionally love will conquer all. Then it will spit you out and allow room for a few punches and pin pricks. Then it might just pick you back up and let you in again. Because that's love. Love can be so many different things, too many. It can be a gentle walk through the wind, advice recieved or the kiss that shouldn't be given on a night away. But then it can be the very first kiss, the holiday romance, the distance or the resistance. It can be that one person that got away, or that one person that stuck around. It can be right, or wrong. It can be the lover or the lover's enemy. The dream or the impossible. Love could have been you, or him. I have no idea what love is, because l
ove is everything and I have no idea what everything is. Is love a mistake or a magical omen. Is the omen a demon or the demon an omen?
Occasionally love with conquer all. And occasionally conquer none. In it's wake it will rupture, capture, crucify, mistily and break. Nobody ever said that it was going to be easy. But I guess we never expected it to be hard. A drug, it cannot be resisted yet it hurts. It kills. It creates. New life is created in its arrival. Sometimes in its force. Sometimes we weep with complete remorse, as it betrays. Not one can feel love without hating it. Nobody ever loved love. Nobody saw the angel above, take flight and leave her guarding. You're alone. Afraid. Nobody can really take that away. So love burnt you, again. Kissed you, again. Crucified you, again.
She is a devil. Strong. So we fear her going just where she belongs. Because we question this destination. Throw wild nettles in accusation. We hit. We fight. We break. We bite. Love. Love has only one description. Hate. We love to hate. The song we sing in hymn. The siren we sound in harmony. A gift of trust, and lack of lust. In deception. There is no greater power, or wisdom. He will never leave once he has there been. Yet he will never return. Its his turn to face the music, not yours. Because you are out of time. The clock has stopped. It's wooden frame taking vintage face across the walls. It's not moving. It's not making a sound. Your scream is though. You can hear his name at the back of your head like a wedged bullet poisoning your heart. It cannot be removed. You're stuck. You're stuck in love.You're stuck in every aspect that is to do with love. And you love him more than anything you could ever have imagined. It frightens you. You can't turn around.
Occasionally love will conquer all. Then it will kiss you gently, cuddle you as you sleep. Wake you from that nightmare mimicking your life. His night. Your night. He will hold your hand and walk across the clouds, under raindrops of so many colours. The rain like bullets, you kick. Then giggle. Then scream in pain at their sharp reserve. Your dream is still your nightmare. So, you're riding bareback, hair long, free. He's watching you, suit and tie. Or just shining under sunrise. Is he dressed or uncovered? I don't know, he's your dream, not mine. But he's mine too. Because he is love. And I hate him as much as I love him. Because that is love. Occasionally love will conquer all, but usually love is simply magic.
By Boneata Bell
2014
Occasionally love with conquer all. And occasionally conquer none. In it's wake it will rupture, capture, crucify, mistily and break. Nobody ever said that it was going to be easy. But I guess we never expected it to be hard. A drug, it cannot be resisted yet it hurts. It kills. It creates. New life is created in its arrival. Sometimes in its force. Sometimes we weep with complete remorse, as it betrays. Not one can feel love without hating it. Nobody ever loved love. Nobody saw the angel above, take flight and leave her guarding. You're alone. Afraid. Nobody can really take that away. So love burnt you, again. Kissed you, again. Crucified you, again.
She is a devil. Strong. So we fear her going just where she belongs. Because we question this destination. Throw wild nettles in accusation. We hit. We fight. We break. We bite. Love. Love has only one description. Hate. We love to hate. The song we sing in hymn. The siren we sound in harmony. A gift of trust, and lack of lust. In deception. There is no greater power, or wisdom. He will never leave once he has there been. Yet he will never return. Its his turn to face the music, not yours. Because you are out of time. The clock has stopped. It's wooden frame taking vintage face across the walls. It's not moving. It's not making a sound. Your scream is though. You can hear his name at the back of your head like a wedged bullet poisoning your heart. It cannot be removed. You're stuck. You're stuck in love.You're stuck in every aspect that is to do with love. And you love him more than anything you could ever have imagined. It frightens you. You can't turn around.
Occasionally love will conquer all. Then it will kiss you gently, cuddle you as you sleep. Wake you from that nightmare mimicking your life. His night. Your night. He will hold your hand and walk across the clouds, under raindrops of so many colours. The rain like bullets, you kick. Then giggle. Then scream in pain at their sharp reserve. Your dream is still your nightmare. So, you're riding bareback, hair long, free. He's watching you, suit and tie. Or just shining under sunrise. Is he dressed or uncovered? I don't know, he's your dream, not mine. But he's mine too. Because he is love. And I hate him as much as I love him. Because that is love. Occasionally love will conquer all, but usually love is simply magic.
By Boneata Bell
2014
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