This Thing I Call Love Poem by Nick K

Had we a heart for the love we had shared
God could have been kind and just left us a pair
But maybe our senses got into the way;
It had to be darkness that shadowed our days.
What truly is love but a sense of its own,
With no organ to claim but a skill to be honed?
Is it thought, is it heat that will soon dissipate?
Is it a function of time, is it tangent to hate?
As I sit, does it stand, am I strictly opposed
To this thing I call love that I’ve now juxtaposed
To a satanic vice, to the absence of God?
Am I now nothing more than a pitiless fraud,
Who claims to be worldly and knows so much more
Than the man on the street and the ungodly whore,
Who see life in its rawness and laugh at the child,
Who lives in a bubble and makes fierce what is mild?
What the babe doesn’t know is that he never can,
For to live is to know, and to love: to be Man.
So he who’s not lived may learn suddenly
The fury of flesh and what love should be.