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Of Love
A feeling that seeps through you,
Searching—
For, as people claim, the heart.
But don’t you feel
It’s shackled, chained, and bound?
But—
People.
People.
These puppets of fate,
These endless masses of the mindless,
Perhaps minds reckless,
Amorphous devotees—yet worthless.
How can they
Know of something
So rare, yet so sublime?
A feeling—
For which God Himself
Created the universes.
A feeling so rich,
A feeling so powerful,
A feeling so divine.
How can it settle in the heart—
Merely the heart—
Which cannot even beat on its own?
Which will come to an end one day?
What if I disrupt this theory?
What if I say I disagree?
As to me,
When this glorious feeling enters your form,
Enchanting you,
It does not seek the heart—
Instead, it searches for your soul.
There it resides,
For divinity quests for what is divine.
And what else could it be,
If not the soul?
The only divine element possessed by mortals.
What else could it be,
If not the soul—
Finding its home
There, love resides,
Liberating it with a sense of identity,
Breaking the shackles that held existence,
Making the mortal free—
So free
That, like a moth, it wanders
In search of fire.
And it may sound ridiculous,
But the fire does not burn,
It does not harm.
Instead,
It ends one last confinement—
The confinement of form.
And under the spell of love,
The immortalized soul of a mortal dances,
With nothing but sheer joy.
As the metamorphosis
Liberates it,
So much so
That all taints fade,
And with extreme purity,
To its Creator, it shall meet.

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