THE PASSAGE

Time cannot mar the passage of love.
Into spiraled depths,
we descend like spiders,
fragile,
our minds,
six-legged in thought
and dangling.

If true, be it truth,
and forever more,
do not forsake its lessons;
patience, understanding
and innocence.

To love is to ramble in comfort,
enraptured and flammable,
boastful, even unkind,
then unexpectedly quelled.
Tragically flawed.
Wonderfully unreal.

Love is a brazen plunder,
nipped from sweet perfumes,
sublime, fantastic, supreme
When in love,
most tranquil,
a dream.