Aren’t we tired of writing
About love? How many words
Have gone wasted as we try
To conjure her upon this
Living page?
We have sat perched
Like random  birds
On our cozy,
Sad chairs; our heads
Hung like overripe fruit
Upon a hanging vine;
There is dust thick
As silt on the edges
Of our memories;
The words our ancestors
Spat with the hope
Of summoning  her
now filter to our
Hidden mind like
So many fireflies on
A too dark night.
We search for meaning
And curse our hearts for
Answers that we never find.
We turn to hieroglyphs
On the worn edges of
A papyrus; indecipherable
Cuneiform etched into
The walls of caves with
Primitive stones.
One day, there will be a
Cure for all maladies;
On that day love will
Still not be defined