The Beautiful Pain called Love [poem]

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Love is so exquisite that it hurts.
Least that’s what I have found
along the pristine pathways
upon which I thought I’d tread
but got a rough-hewn way instead.
And no wonder that it should!
Our puny bodies were not made
for such a ripyourselftopieces
ride as this; thus love (by which
I mean the truest kind) means
certain self-destruction and
I could not care less if I died
this way or that or on a road
or in a place called “home”
so long as I was a) with you and
b) we will have fused together
for a hugeful while (though I can
no more measure time) upon a
throne of red carnelian and
reigned sublime as King & Queen
of diamonds over the hills to sky.

To love with every atom of our
being means that we will open
up a hole into our soul the size
of dreams — a whitehole into
endless labyrinthine laserwalks
to wander through which lead
me inexorably to drenchful you
and all that pain which love
ensnares me with again until
I no more beg for mercy but
allow myself to bubble into you,
my sword within your sheath —
a fine reward, some light relief
and icing on the lava cake I
made from our volcano’s flow,
a stone’s throw from the sun.

Love (true love) could be not love
without the pain, for with its
burning shaftlike beams it drives
all worthless sanity insane —
exposes shadows and false blame,
renders every underworld as vain,
demonstrates the folly when we
feign ourselves to those we say we love;
it sets concealed mendacity aflame,
thus making it for all to see (for not
a single thing in this dark world can
buck the searing scorch of love).

So now I will embrace the burn
which comes when learning
how to love — by which I mean
that love which bares (denudes)
all hiddenness of heart and sets
true-questing souls apart from
those fairweather lovers who —
reluctant to all probing light
then opt to fight love’s barbs.
Far better, then, to be impaled
on laserlovely shafts than be
derailed by epigraphs we take
for love but never is nor cannot
ever be unless we learn to
welcome every thrusting blade
which loveness throws our way.

There are no risks in love (by
which I mean the nail-all-my-
extremities upon the crossful
kind of love). For when we give
our everything there’s nothing
left to lose or ever leave behind
(that’s what repeatedly I find).

But this densedeeply type of love
(true love I mean) is not at all for
dilettantes of the heart but only
submarinal travellers profound
and willingful to flounder and
beneath the waves to drown.

And thisly love (true love I mean)
can never be an ending in itself but
is a preparation or a practice run
[purloining on its way our breath]
for something deeper which we
ignorantly (foolishly) call death.


© Alan Morrison, 2015

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