What is love, a lustful rush of endorphin's?
As if I had the answer,
But what lesser being would I be,
If I respectfully chose not  to cipher.

What is love.

A modern sonnet, if olde words were staid,
Would stay in the minds of poets,
To marvel,  unravel, and cavalcade,
Laying in the beds of lovers

This is love.

Held forth on fingers damp
From kisses laid on lips.
The lover recites with flaccid mouth,
Lines to shiver and evoke.

Thoughts of love.

The rush of lust and endorphin twine,
And poets chase and mimics mime.
What is it, this is it, I think I know.
Ha! you thought, thought defined.

What is love.

Undefined.