Enigma of Love

Within literature’s vast expanse, Poets weave melodies divine, Singing love’s eternal tune, resonating through time. Writers, too, extol with pens held high, The radiant embers of affection’s blaze. But hark! Let truth’s veil be lifted, For love, beguiling in its charm, conceals untold mysteries. Love, a silent cancer, slithers stealthily, Enshrouding the soul in profound solitude. Its edges, sharp and cunning, etch deep, Unleashing ceaseless wounds that bleed. Within its gentle grasp, a kiss, a transfer, A venomous elixir courses through veins, Wreaking havoc, potent and destructive, Eroding the very foundations of existence. As love’s tendrils encircle the heart, Its shadow descends, potent and obscure, A shroud of gloom obliterating vibrant hues, Rendering life’s canvas in monochromatic despair. Each brushstroke blots out vibrant colors, Transforming worlds into abyssal nights. Thus, love becomes a paradoxical torment, Promising ecstasy and companionship, While inflicting indescribable ache, Echoing within the depths of being. That which draws us near, whispers sweetly, Becomes the force propelling us towards the abyss of solitude. Still, we yearn for love’s tender touch, Within its tangled vines, fleeting moments of bliss, The prospect of connection, transcending self. Enduring cuts, wounds, and scars, In hopes of love’s healing, not harm. …