When Only Paper Can Save

The Longest Sonnet to Explain Love

This syrupy word has left a bland taste,

every writer keeps the same seasoning.

Coated words put paper and brains to waste.

They say honey messes with reasoning;

always balanced with worn out  jawbreakers.

Never reaches the kosher point of things.

Without raw feelings there are no takers!

No more flavor in the glucose they bring.

Love has so much spice, it burns like a star!

What if it, love, was a raw example?

So noticeable it leaves a deep scar.

Life, a sample of something so ample.

     Doting equals vocation, it's just mad!

     Cupid's arrow has never been so sad.

Eight names love goes by without being shy:

Agape, Eros, Storge, Philautia...  

Doesn't leave you even if you're cold, away:

Philia, Pragma, Ludus, Mania...

Agape, a type of spiritual love;

hands hold the cross of a holy father,

free the spirit in the form of a dove.

Not all keep their good hands from pure daughters.

Put on a label that destroys them all,

it's sad to see them being hell sinners!

God, how body and blood giving men fall? 

Their knees are rusted by hate, poor beggars...

     Old pages of the book seem angelic;

     but, the hidden bell sounds are barbaric.

This one craves romance, passion, love, and sex... 

She wants to feel this as smoke leaves her lungs.

See a dime and get ready for the next;

so young, yet poison leaves her many tongues.

Walking like ripe jewels in the dark streets!

Eyes so intense, they make the mighty weak.

It makes a work of art with spilled blood sheets:

cold money has never made a heart reek.

It's used and gets broken beyond repair;

under all that madness, it still burns hot!

Jabs the skin and pulls it off with a tear;

leaves your gentle throat in a breathless knot...

     Dear Eros, pleasure is born in my soul!

     With one taste, it's easy to lose control.

Storge, a nice god, love your little ones!

Teach the forgotten into future folks.

Parent-child love, they say, power it takes;

with knowledge, guide them like water through kolks.

Open your spent eyes to the morning rays:

drain your pure brain with each written, said word.