The Irony of Love

We seek love in her enchanting smile;
in the process, ourselves we beguile.
We seek love in his fingers running through our tresses,
and miss out on enjoying our soul's caresses.

We find life incomplete without him,
but never grope for completeness within.
We feel life is nothing, if not for her;
and seek our happiness in another.

Caught in the shackles of possessive vanity,
lovers link joy to their mate’s proximity.
Their sorrow, they feel, they can beat,
only when the twain shall meet.

We give our lovers the key to our passions,
and live our lives under self-imposed illusions
that they've the power to affect our emotions
and, for better or for worse, control our reactions.

Man has a lot to learn from a child,
the fount of mirth, so pleasant and mild.
Its joy is unconditional and within;
if not a toy, sand is a play-thing.

For a kid’s existence is rooted in the present,
he is a joy so pure that is born to last.
We limit ourselves in conditions of possession
and are bound by the future, burdened by the past.

Free mind of a child breaks its aviary.
Man is but a slave to idiosyncrasy.
He pulls love from unbound divinity
and restrains it in parochial conditionality.

When we fathom that happiness is our slave,
we will not in ‘normal’ ways behave.
Our love will flow from us forever,
whether our love is with us or another.

Mirth is the essence of existence.
This joy is the divine fount of love.
Man, in his quest, mortalized it
and bore what I call the irony of love.