There is a certain curiosity I possess towards people
Who resent love like a leader does a traitor.
Yes, love is war, yet the soldiers stand two,
Like the sole either-sidely survivors of a gory battle.
This can only end in two variants:
An eternity of peace
Or a victory of violence and hatred.
Such is love.
It is bloody and terrifying
With its uncertainties and doubts and trust that
Resembles staring down the barrel of a gun.
One click, one word, one tap to Achilles’ heel and it could all fall apart.
A theory to ponder pounds pensively in the adrenaline charged instant
Between a punch and a kiss.
A scream or a whisper.
A shot or a truce.
A theory has no time, yet time has no theory, does it, eventually?
And so, to be at war is to be in love.
He hit me and it felt like a kiss.
In love with pain and suffering and in love with joy and prosperity.
A passion towards a motherland and the spoils of victory.
Eventually though, is the kill worth it? Is a truce incurable by kisses?
Perhaps love is fuelled by a curiosity towards people who have not yet felt it?