Love
Love is a blanket whose thick crocheted threads coat the heart in warmth,
Swaddling the being of essence in comfort of a chair which rocks back and forth.
To and fro goes the heart's flow away and towards that which lights the night,
In which darkness whose shadows succumb to the sucked thumb of absent fright.
Within my mother I find the fury of courage whose fires fuel the tender coals,
Which incineration combusts the catacombs of empty spark-less scattered souls.
To her I owe to that which over darkness does prevail,
Whose exhaust exhaled by my suffrage, the shade has inhaled.
Until I meet he who which ignites the slight of cinder,
She will be that by which the shadows shall be hindered.
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