An enigmatic riddle lies before me,
One that has yet to be solved,
What truly is this thing called love?
It’s an ice cube in water, waiting to be dissolved.
The answer lies within its wintriness,
Frozen in a timeless cage,
A journal with a broken clasp,
Yet invisible ink lies upon the page.
Few have found the true meaning,
The essence of something so pure,
Is it an aspiration of unspeakable felicity?
Or a disease that no one can cure?
Is love just a sickness of the heart?
A swelling of cardiac bliss,
An ever spreading infection of infatuation,
Until no part of oneself is missed.
What happens to people who fall in love?
Struck by the golden arrow of cupid,
All there is to know,
Is that the world wouldn’t spin without it.
Earth’s revolutions are not based on wind patterns,
They’re not based on gravitational force or pull,
They’re based on affection found throughout the world,
Contrary to anything found dull.
So what is this aspect of life?
Engulfing our hearts as a intricate glove,
Pulling on our heartstrings like a puppeteer,
It’s a silly little thing called love.