Not Everything Is Love

 

 

Block the flow of effervescent now, 

because you think it’s for love somehow. 

Start prose or rhyme in living’s design, 

or bark sonnets that pretend refines. 

 

Not everything is love, breathing 

rhythm’s dances and existence sings 

of a time when Nature paused teaming. 

No love’s not there; it deems repeating. 

 

Still in time without selfish desires,

heartbeats in time, not wanting, still tires. 

Build packets and chambers in minds’ eyes; 

this requires thoughtful words and long sighs. 

 

Not everything is about love; 

I mention the stars above, 

or the flight of a single white dove. 

No, love’s not there; it spars with a shove. 

 

Nature births its smallest ants and gnats, 

building monuments to bites and bats. 

Mammals crawling from baking mud flats, 

rescue selves with exuberant pants. 

 

Not everything is love, in life. 

Movement dances without bankrupt spite, 

while natural gestures flow despite. 

No, love’s verdant charms ignore delight. 

 

Breathe the air of just being alive, 

without adding baggage that contrives. 

View starlight on seamless, cloudless nights, 

without emotions that cause such blights. 

 

T.M. Prada 

Copyright © 2015

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