LOVE
Love is so limiting
The flight to satisfaction
Can hardly be listed in the annals of love.
WB Yeats wanted a small island
The unrequited romantic leaves
Dragging arms in the dust.
Spiralled into willing
And determination
Love hovers.
Lock it in, slow, put down the bloody phone
And listen.
Being lost,
Solution-less is possibly an art form
A love desert like.
Useless and dry.
But solutions are for mechanics and doctors.
Love rides a different wave
Seas full and rough,
Smooth becalmed.
Presence enough?
No and yes.
Exhausted ears wounded heart breathless soul.
And finally an island alone.
For a few moments washed up and forgotten
A memory of one moment when I knew
That I had as best I knew
Loved.
And that was enough.
Peter Breen
Peteskibreen's Blog 