love isn't Venus
stars, moon, light, spectrum,
grand displays;
of parading beauty
parodies, like goddesses on runways
of daytime dreams
not any nature, fact, special
feeling while looking at Monet,
reading gogal,
playing Debussy, to worship
an image of static or change
or anything graven or grey.
not grand schemes to serve
ideal visions in fact
no reason
at all
not seeing following down tunnels,
lost like children in darkness
on stairways descending to
adversity, trying to catch love
before a decent
face is formed.
grabbing by shabby clothes
that hold beauty by the heart
that tells her she's worth more
than image,
substance,
even worship.
more than admiration,
dreams lovers have
of gratifying a lost puppy feel
of life transposed
from intention to the mirror
of what's never seen
or been there at all.