Un-Love

If eyes be windows through which the hearth can be seen

Then love is the guest who merely finds where to squat.

And if words be the doves that absolve you from sin,

Here can love be the bug that that bird left behind.

Then they’re in, pretty place, and they shut all the blinds

So that nothing can harm all the quietness inside.

All their joy can’t be explained, nor do they understand,

But who cares, I feel fine, and my host thinks that’s kind.

Then the guest and the bug, freely moving around,

Find the place very neat and decide not to fly

Coz outside it is dark and so hard to survive,

So they stay for a while.

But the place looses charm

Coz the hearth just goes cold and the doves come no more

So the house just decays, and with it all the ease,

And the guest has to flee, and the bug cannot be,

So the host is set free and now he has to clean.

But in looks and in terms I do not try to fix

My ideas of love: even though, I do sit

And remain by the glass being aware of who’s near,

Asking questions before I can open my door.