On Love

Some great verses have been written,

On love, by those who have been smitten,

By this sentiment, divine and stout.

They were great brains, there’s no doubt.

So why should I be left behind?

I shall too, speak my mind.

And add my two pennyworth of views,

On love in general and its muse.

To me love is a funny phenomenon,

It cannot simply thrive on its own.

It flows from one to the other of a pair,

That’s how it tells you that it’s there.

Its fate rests on the individuals in question,

And on their psychological digression.

I have been observing from my experiences,

Which aren’t few, there are many instances.

Of these, I now proceed to share a few,

Those which have led my straight ideas askew,

I have, since then, ceased to believe,

That love bound the hearts of Adam and Eve.

I have seen some pompously declare,

Of love, when they so solemnly blare,

Like foghorns they sing odes to the objects,

Of their affection, their fair prospects.

There are those who pretend to care,

They conduct with secrecy, an affair,

With great caution, lest it becomes known,

And the case ceases to be their own.

Some do go on harping till the end,

Go down on knees, from backs they bend,

Stoop low, (in all its senses, you see),

To win their trophies of this singular fancy.

But as time passes so does love,

It ceases soon to be the one above,

All warm sentiments, to be only replaced,

By tolerance, iron souled and hard-faced.

Or worse, when inconsistencies creep in,

The slighted heart fails to keep in,

All the hurt within it anymore,

The story of slight then goes around like a lore.

All those doomed with such ill-fates,

Become pitiful subjects of drawing room debates.

Analysis goes on who’s right or wrong,

And the sundered hearts contain the memories lifelong.

These are some vagaries I’ve found,

Like great maxims, these are profound.

To ‘love to the moon and back’ and forth,

Is purely literary, for all its worth.

My purpose, my friends, is not to condemn,

This feeling divine, which is so solemn,

Neither do I assume to be critical,

Of those who think that love is magical.

My own ideas are, for all purposes,

Purely practical, and free from vices.

Those who remain true to their avowed ones,

They are, as they say, the real champions.

Those who give, but do not expect,

They are the ones worth our respect.

All these fellows I follow and study,

And tread into realms, both pristine and muddy.