I return to an oft-exploréd rumination
What is the weakness of the human condition
That it aches for love and is incomplete
Without love to make it whole
And to make the Soul
Ever undying within the being of another.

What is love? the poets postulate
The priests and pastors proselytise
Ordinary students wax lyrical
On this subject, as old as a horse
Meant to have been put out to pasture
Aeons ago, decades.

Do I need this love? It would seem so
I b**** and moan and wonder, I know
There is no use, no none at all
Too many times I've had to fall
I wonder what is this deformity
Within me?
That it would seem as if others
are incapable of seeing within me
Beyond what is there, behind my madness
Maybe there is nothing.
No, none at all.

So I put my pen to paper
I pour my soul into words
At least that way
Even if my soul
Is crumpled up and thrown away
I have a copy.