Jonathan Platt

The creature 'Love' - a curious thing,
So high it soars, though has no wings.
And beauteous to all who view,
Yet has no form and has no hue...

To seek, to find, to catch, to hold -
To feel its warmth - and now so cold!
It has no voice - we hear its call -
And so we rise, knowing we might fall.

We feel it as it flutter-moves
Along our inner, tender grooves,
Like dreamy touches, caressings wild.
O 'Love' make our hearts your domicile.