Love.
Imaginary, or a force of nature?
Like the idea of ‘consciousness’.
Are they both just falsehoods,
Or truly realities experienced by those favoured?
Love.
As comforting as a hot bowl of soup,
On a cold frosty evening.
In its absence we are all but,
Lost souls, floating on rafts destined for sinking.
Love.
Perhaps yearned for more than money itself,
A truth too close to the heart,
That we mask it with our insatiable appetite for wealth.
I gush with guilt in admitting to the above.
Only to find myself alone at night,
Wondering. What it means to be loved.
The Neon Squid 