Stating Finally

How ought
  one to know when
         the
            end of love should be?

                              Some might say,
 love,
 if it
be true,
         ends not.

How then, ought
   one to know when
love is true? (If emblazoned flame dims to mere dulled glow can she then be reassigned? 
                                               Destroyed in 
                                                              imagination, existing only in the substance of
                                                                          the actual, whatever that is, does she die with death or answer Hamlet in elements
                           strong and stunning?)

                                  I know not.  I know only this:
                                                  that she whispers relent-
                                                                                lessly, (must we treat her as
                                                                                                              a 
virus, kill her with starvation,
cure ourselves with lust instead? Abuse her in her
    redemption, her assumption,
                         her persistence, harbor
malice toward her tender grace?  Deny pursuit for fear
            of sham? 
Gloss illusions, hoarding piteous imitation, bargain legalities of- 
                               disadvantaged humans that we are.  
     Social dances, we empty purse of sentiments pinched,
 garnering interest as we go, shush her when she comes to supper, call her bluff, her fluff. It makes us blush. 
                        She's blunt and eager, sighing
                                         and we have work to do. 
                                                                  Reduce her to a grudge, shelve her, 
               hold her
tongue,
we of sober mind find solace in naked,
                      natural
void.
She is for the young, the stupid, the uninformed.  What might she say
      if we should listen?)
                                                                                   seeks now to give, requiting less a need than once, twice,
thrice before.
She is truer than
bluer, baser pining, tall and ever guiding, honest in submission, if less so in admission. (She won't be rushed so we snub her 
                                                          healing, sooth marrow with alleviating whim) She speaks
                                                                in silence and in words
                                                                in souls, in hearts, creation.
                                                                         Loudest often in her absence
                                                                                                  and quiet when observed.
                                                                                                                             She's all
                                                                                                                                      and everywhere.
Seen not
when sought by self.
Perhaps, nature, her purer form
        and realized
                                                                 deeper there.
She weaves with
       wind,
sings with swallows, dares to dwell in dust
                   and in these places, I admit, I've often overlooked
             her air.
                   Alone, I hear her
say I'm not and
she whispers
secrets I can not
         tell
and though I'd like to pluck her from the heart (for
what can the 
                  heart know?) and place her somewhere nobler - the soul is safer, the spirit wiser-
                                                                                                          I fear she'd just return.

And so the question haunting; (the
             thorn offending,
scandalous revery, composed of perfect view) this I find, I can return,
            to where love was born or made, discovered or existent all along.

                     In drops, I understand her mystery, exchange musings for her maker.
     Make
     me, still.
     Made me
once
 to love, be loved, to wonder
and releasing, I will give
                                                     and receiving, I will
                                                                                live.
"Where there is love there is life."
                     She is true as beauty, beautiful
                                      as truth.
Love
     ends not
for she possesses no beginning.
     She circles life and subject, inviting, not expecting,
hand held out or
     down,
I've grabbed her,
                entered now her orbit, retraction
                 no more a choice than day and night, embodied within a spectrum,
light's glory shining bright
 and encompassed but extended, my own hand travels out; an invitation lacking only expectation,
stating finally,
                love never ends.

Carry On Tuesday
The Music In It