Lend a hand to someone in need of love the way a prostitute would.
Those of us with any sense know that love is just
an open room waiting for the right tenant
to inhabit it, ruin the carpet, stain the walls and leave its underwear on the kitchen floor.
Chances are you’ve met love; near the alleyway by the school gates, pie-faced next to a stranger sipping a cocktail with a sprinkle of pixie-dust just to spruce up the night.
We all hold to moments like memories, knowing full well that even they will fade.
That’s not love.
Love was my mother’s cry in the morning,
As my father prized her from the wooden floor, softened her tears with his palm, peeled away the soiled garments
and cleaned the feces that woke her in the first place.
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Author:
Caleb.A (
Offline) - Published: May 17th, 2019 04:02
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 21
Offline)
Comments6
Your piece today brought to mind a fellow i know in his late years, sound of mind and body, committed to the love of his ailing wife.
Yes that is love. Love beyond my experience but not a love beyond my understanding.
A very moving piece indeed.
Love is as your well-chosen words describe it here Caleb - a treasure that no money can buy. A read to remember.
Hello Caleb,
A charming and great poem on love and all its dimensions.
Thank you.
Keep writing
FineB
That is very lovely. You have shown what the meaning of true love is. Great writing x
Love has so many ways of showing itself, I can understand fully your fathers love for your mother.
I love the in-your-face reality of this work Caleb. Good old counterfeit love - the stuff of the sexual revolution that leaves more people depressed and suicidal than we can ever try to comprehend. Ah, those lower appetites - how they are a gnawing thorn in my side!
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