There are no words to describe it
There is no way to define it.
There are many ways to kill it
There are but few ways to revive it.
It is eternal.
In life
In death.
It holds the truth
But just as many lies.
Forever hiding
Forever attention seeking.
Always hurting
Always healing.
Everyone has it
Some use it
Few show it
Others exploit it; corrupt it.
Despite all that
Love is a gift.
Love is its own culture
Its own conscience.
Its own mystery
Its own adventure.