Love was the lone window lit,
in that long wintry night,
beacon light of his winding path,
the lips that softly whispered and
evoked dreams, that'd become real,
for his wonderment, later, much later.
When he slipped and fell in to
the deep pit of long, endless silence,
love was his ladder to climb
to the rainbow bridge of hope
she used to frequent in evenings
though won't recognize him
not once, even for the old times' sake.
Love compelled him to compose,
soulful songs that'd stop the flow of tears,
his eyes never went dry until then
even while sleeping, his head was
on pillows of fire.
Love was the stone wall, that shielded
him from the raging fire of misery,
the rain that came down in torrents
when his long torn, desolate heart
was parched dry in cruel drought
too was love itself.
He was washed ashore alone,
when he heard the whispers,
love was speaking to his psyche
from near in a comforting tone,
then love held his hand,led him
across the marshes and swamp
sharp thorns and stones wounded him
gathering nightmares chased
and haunted him.
And then, love came along, in a disguise,
but his eyes waiting for long recognized,
love, comforted, chanted potent mantras
that helped him endure pain, gave him hope.
Love was his brave charioteer, the messenger
who told that all that was thought lost
is still in his possession as light within.
When there is the hand of love to hold, one is not alone.
