A Question for Love

13 Comments

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  • Emotional

    A Question for Love



    This question plagues my mind,
    Has love run on its supply?
    Expeditiously he opines,
    Do not believe his lies.
    Everlasting love,
    A devil in disguise.
    Time will show you proof,
    His logic does not factor.
    Overlooking my demerits,
    Failing as an actor.
    Loves ever daunting spirit,
    Our bittersweet distractor.
    Vehemently he denies,
    Even love someday must die.
    ?

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    Helios commented on A Question for Love

    06-07-2010

    The immortal... the source of creative energy, and yet it has a habit of dying sometimes. As graceladymn...love form a new living thing [ it as a phoenix, it rises from the ash and is reborn].

    KING commented on A Question for Love

    06-07-2010

    Love can die, but it in the end is immortal. We unfortuantely,(Lest the powers that are greater than us changes their minds) do pass on.

    graceladymn commented on A Question for Love

    08-25-2009

    And when love appears to die prepare yourself for the sprout that rises forth from that very seed of death, for love is the energy of all living things, when it appears to die it is merely going underground to come forth as a new living form. Seeds so precious that not much can obstruct its transformation, not hate, unhappiness, decay or violence can ever shut the mystery of this creative energy, it is all substance seen and unseen. So watch as love appears dead, watch it yet arise and learn to just let it, let it go through its cycles and become as it is within self.

    optimistic commented on A Question for Love

    07-03-2009

    It sounds really delicate and gives you a view on how love could be in so many ways before death I thought you use great imagery thru this poem.

    Artie commented on A Question for Love

    06-19-2009

    Nicely done. I don't think love dies, it just stomps on you and goes to someone else.................

    Poetry is not an expression of the party line. It's that time of night, lying in bed, thinking what you really think, making the private world public, that's what the poet does.

    Allen Ginsberg (1926-1997) U.S. poet.

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