What Is Love? Poem by Paul Andrew Bourne

Like the dew of the morning,
No one knows from whence it came
Or where it goes thereafter
Like a thought
No one knows of where it starts
I see or don't I see
The emptiness of my being without love
I can't explain its call on my soul
Neither its power over me
Nor the spirit that its bring over me
if love is not the abuse of power
then power is useless without love
But, what is love?
Truly, what tis love, that I should be mindful of it?
It is like a weapon in the hands of the enemy,
a destructive force that can't be quenched by jealousy


Like the dew of the morning,
No one knows from whence it came
Or where it goes thereafter
Like a thought
No one knows of where it starts
I see or don't I see
The emptiness of my being without love
I yearn for its warmth, its kindness, its charm, its wildfire
It dominates my mind like bad news
It clings to my being with favour
Like a screw it opens my being with resistance
All I'll be is the vessel that carries this burning feeling of desire
Of a desire
That cripples my everything in its wake

Like the dew of the morning,
No one knows from whence it came
Or where it goes thereafter
Like a thought
No one knows of where it starts
I see or don't I see
The emptiness of my being without love
I'm awaken by love early in the morning
And its linger longer after the lights are off for sleep
I'm awaken by this call from the deep
No one knows how much
This thing has consume their everything
Love
Love, where is thine beginning?
Or ending
And why do I not have the right to let you in
I desire thee because of non-avoidance
I know not why
But, you have destroyed me by your every move

Like the dew of the morning,
No one knows from whence it came
Or where it goes thereafter
Like a thought
No one knows of where it starts
I see or don't I see
The emptiness of my being without love
What is love that my being resisteth thee not?
What is love that I know not the minute of your beginning?
Or do I not know of what constitutes thee
Love is exceptional to love's mystery
What is love, if I know thee not?
What is love that I hold so dear to thee?
Despite its fragility, why do I love, love so much
I can't foresee my life with its magic
Yet, I hate its ending like a blind man so
Desperately wanting to view the world through the lens of his eyes

Like the dew of the morning,
No one knows from whence it came
Or where it goes thereafter
Like a thought
No one knows of where it starts
I see or don't I see
The emptiness of my being without love
Yet I beg the question ‘what is love? '


Paul Andrew Bourne