Love - first post :)

Love

Enchanted by your beauty

Tightly bound by twine

Held together in tight embrace

A burning fire

Inextinguishable

No desire to part

Love

Captive by your sight

Firmly bound by chains

Shackled together in keyless restraints

No ability to escape

Love

Victim of our pain

Painfully bound in barbed wire

Ensnared together in a steel trap

How do we escape

Spite

Nothing here remains

Held together by loose thread

Distant though we say

Love

You wrote about Love — but you forgot to give it muddy boots. This poem feels like a clean window that’s afraid of fingerprints. You bind lovers with twine, chains, barbed wire, but I don’t feel the scratches on my hands. Love is not a showroom sculpture tied with silk. It’s a pig fight in the mud, where even the loser smiles with a broken tooth. Your metaphors: twine, chains, barbed wire — they line up like obedient soldiers, but they all march to the same drum. Where is the metaphor that sneaks out the back door? Where is the “twine” that smells of old bread? Where is the “barbed wire” that used to be a wedding ring? And the structure: Love… Love… Love… Spite. It feels like you’re ticking boxes on a form. I would break that form, spill the ink, and let the words trip over each other, like drunk lovers at a funeral. The last stanza: “Nothing here remains / Held together by loose thread” Yes! That’s a thread! But why not let it tangle in a bird’s nest? Why not let Spite be a grandmother knitting with no yarn? This poem needs to lose its fear of mess. Let Love sweat. Let Spite gossip in the corner. Right now, it’s all too clean, too safe, and Love, in my opinion, is a dirty, laughing beggar who always comes back for more. With hope, Florin Lacatus