Lustful Rush*



What is love, a lustful rush of endorphins?

As if I had the answer,

But what lesser being would I be,

If I respectfully chose not  to cypher. 


What is love.


A modern sonnet, if olde words were staid,

Would stay in the minds of poets,

To marvel and unravel, and cavalcade,

Laying in the beds of lovers


This is love.


Held forth on fingers damp

From kisses laid on lips.

The lover recites with flaccid mouth,

Lines to shiver and evoke.


Thoughts of love.


The rush of lust and endorphine twine,

And poets chase and mimics mime.

What is it, this is it, I think I know.

Ha! you thought, thought defined.


What is love.












Author's Notes/Comments: 

A Sunday afternoon of Sonnet reading is my definition of love, in bed.


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Nocnitsa's picture

Well said. Love is... 

Well said. Love is... 

"I have become a second generation cosmic being, I am conceived in the womb of nature, in my own mind... In the womb of the universe."