This Thing Love
(Modern Sonnet)
What is this thing love that makes fools of kings;
that makes a once low and lonely pauper dance,
or the most cheerful heart now cry while singing
- yet ready for another awkward chance.
Is there anything in this mortal life
that thrice bitten, we reach out again
to where angels and demons dance with knives
and where pain seems too common an end.
I think not - I think it is our soul's gold,
a quest that is never, ever ending,
then once in our grasp, to no one sold,
nor value in a heart pretending.
I look upon this love and pray,
that never can I let it slip away.
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