Tre Bien M'amor

Tre Bien M'amor

Tuesday, June 8, 2010

Love is a Battle Feild

None can seem to grasp that the gentle pangs of the heart and its mellow sighs to which we acknowledge as love are as eruptive and roaring as the hells of war. Canon fire blazing fast and destructive but a mere purr of the devastation to which a broken heart thunders away in the midst of cracking. Nobody, and yet everybody is but a simple fool to this Great War’s seduction and all succumb to recruitment into the vast armies of both sides of man and mistress. No one emerges unscathed, dirtied and scarred yet slightly wiser to the secrets of warfare, slightly wiser that love is their battlefield.

There is no escape in this entrapment of grass, ground, and shattered purple hearts. There is no leave for those made insane, made unwhole and harmed, only a longer wait for recovery and sweet release to the world of doves and fluttering hearts. Pain is of another kind, only dispersing till the last person to scar your tattered heart has been overcome by your will or freedom is but a vow and kiss away. In this fight of passions every blow becomes a scar, a scar that remains as vivid as those sharp memories from which you pull your pain.

No one plays this game the same. The cowards hug their guns and shift in the shadows, afraid of anyone who gets close enough to draw blood from their unscathed frame and shivering conscious. You may reach your hand past the gun, smile and console them into comfort but the bayonet just slides slowly toward the point where effort is pain and each beat is a reason to give in. Words are wasted, romantic gestures another degree that the trigger is pulled till the clank of snapping metal and sparks send bullets bursting your heart. The coward remains the same, saved in their own ignorant mind, but the one who tried to help, tried to make you believe love was more than blood and bad intentions, now lies beside you shattered, shaking and alone.

This is a war created by those that hide and harm, trick and track. Kind souls are few and feared for the wrong reasons, they bare no arms but those god gave them to console and hold with, hold you tight to know you’re loved. Jackets whipping in the wind expose bare chests and unstrapped helmets sure signs that they no not how to fight but only how to give a heart. They know pain more than any, scarred and damaged till bandages are a common dress and purple hearts shake and shimmer off swinging sleeves. We never tire of being hopeful, never tire of daring to dream that as mangled as our hearts can get and as tired as our legs become, love’s soothing feel will coarse through us and break us of our ravaged shape.

True love, fleeting and rare is your leave from this torn perspective of chancing your heart in hopes of something breathe taking, your way to fly out into the world beyond bomb shells and beaten aspirations. Your leave from the concrete uncertainty that comes from the white coats which piece together your ability to move forward and forget the pulsating pain of a heart beat. Love is your reason for each lumbered step, for each heavy breath, every word of great depth. Love is why the soldier carries on, past the lies of freedom, beyond the barricades of closed hearts; love is why the soldier sings out across the expanse of endless pain. Finding love is a battlefield, cold and harsh, but love is out there, screaming for compassion, a caring kiss, a hand to hold, a reason to believe you’re on the way.

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