Love will be found, even in love's dearth,
No truth more plentiful and abundant,
For Love warms my heart the breadth of its girth,
And warms me with her truth, resplendent,
Love is dove, she's peace and fire,
A raggedy ribbon on the breeze,
On golden wings she aspires,
Like one of nature's dutiful bees,
Love is a butterfly, fragile, soft,
Painted with pallet got from dream,
On sublime wings borne aloft,
Her aura vivid and supreme,
I welcome Love, her divine zephyr,
That flutters, beckons out to me
That warms me with other worldly ether,
And makes me sail on sunny seas.

Love is no crime, a truth known to all,
For she does not discriminate,
Love's dearth the righteous mind appals,
Should in that truth we ruminate,
Those who know not doubt Love's truth,
The shallowest of all denial,
A kind of beauty rare, forsooth,
Dost yet withstand a cynic's trial,
They cannot dream of sullying her flame,
With their inferior hand and magic,
With treacherous tale and treacherous game,
And crass, perverted logic,
Her truth will ring out, proud and loud,
Across the flowering universe,
Our Hearts clad in divinest shroud,
I communicate its joys in verse.