The feeling came again.
Love or Lust?
Neither I hope,
I hate writing of love.
It invokes a powerlessness
that I can collapse under
like the weight of the ocean
collapsing around me
and on me
as I
drown in it.
The power of it all.
The pull towards it...
terrifying. Absolute
and devastating.
I swam downwards
to catch the siren
before she fell
to the ocean floor
without me.
I see her face
and it is
not a face
I recognize.
It has become my death.
It has made me,
In my thoughts,
the playground of imagination
no mere mortal being
can exist.
That love is a selfish love,
and it is enticed by perfection.
In every way,
she is becoming of me.
She is an almighty and
powerful muse
that shoots lightning
through my veins
and makes me wake
in the middle of the night
with a mixture of confusion
and rapture,
wondering what will I do.
What ever will I do?
What ever or will ever
shall I do
now that I am lost
within her?...
I hate writing of love.
© 2016 Parker Jennings

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