Rose or Thorn?
A 2017 poem I revised. The prompt had something to do with a love poem. Revisions done: New title, multiple new lines, and word choice for clarity and context.
What is actual true love? Is it the love of money? The love of power over another's emotions? The panacea to the absolute dread you feel whenever you’re alone? The feeling of death's whispers on your temple without your lover? The glee when a friend brings you a birthday gift, when you thought they forgot, and without a word, got it perfectly? The bliss crucifixed in memory when two become one under the fire of many moons phases? The relief when a spouse isn’t having an affair, isn’t serving you divorce papers or court schedules, but overt earnest love letters you'd throw yourself from a roof if anyone else saw them out of context? Can someone direct me to a definition? My so-called lover’s voice being all that I hear, over catchy radio songs that get stuck in your head until you want to scream and tear the lyrics from your skull? Their quirks all that I see in shower puddles, over the woman that nursed me for nine months without a lover, despite all of her sisters wearing floor scrapping white gowns with diamondless gold rings to match— that fooled no one— before the talk of a father's responsibility? Is that love in the purest form of the unexpected disappearance—a silent goodbye, the last one —without a kiss? Can anyone answer what God won’t and what time dangles but denies?
The heart wants what the heart wants. No more no less. A rose wilts, hugs surround. Kiss affection. Love is a disease that catches you unaware.
Breathtaking, from start to finish, Daniel!