In a silent moment,
when you see yourself reflected in another's eyes,
your soul rises from it's nest in you, it soars above
with your lover's soul, each dissolving into light, pure,
each converging, to join, as lips meet in a kiss,
that surely must last forever.
Love never dies, nor does it sleep,
it defeats you with it's vigour,
when it moves, fast as lightning, or as surely
as a river carving a canyon, in perpetual motion,
but we are not layers of rock, but mortal beings,
and we do not stand a chance.
When an infant cries out for his mother's breast,
we see that love seeks nothing but itself, and like milk,
it cannot help but nourish and sustain.
It is a perfect thing, and we are never perfect,
and when we, in our pain, curse love,
it is merely our weakness we hate.