Letter one – On Love

Love is not the thing you think.
It isn’t pure and kind.
It rages like a rising torrent,
To sweep you off to lands unknown.
It bites and scratches,
At your defenses,
Tears them down,
Leaves you exposed,
But love, true love,
Is always worth it,
Even once you’re left alone.
It comes,
Not when you need or want it.
It comes to tear your world apart.
It comes with pain,
It comes with raging,
Sleepless nights,
Where you’re alone.
And no you never will be ready.
No, you’ll never be all there.
Perfection is not where,
True love grows.
It’s in your muck,
And in your mire.
O, it will hurt,
With pain like fire.
O, it will burn away the chaff.
But if true love,
Is meant to dwell there,
You’ll conquer mountains,
You will soar.



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