Love is a very splendid thing,
except when it is difficult
and painful
and confusing.
Love suffers long and is kind;
love does not envy;love does not parade itself,is not puffed up;
It is so over verbalized in glossy magazines,
dissected photogenically,
until the reader is sick at the stench of it's decay
in following editions.
Love does not behave rudely, does not seek its own,
is not provoked,thinks no evil:
Love is an elusive treasure boasted about by the honey tongued
when it is seemingly found,
only to turn into ash
in the mouths of those betrayed.
Love does not rejoice in iniquity, but rejoices in the truth;
Current ideas of love morph and twist
as they are pulled to and fro
by philosophizing fools,
spitting out inconclusive survey results
to prove their insanity.
Love bears all things, believes all things,
hopes all things, endures all things.
She has found true love the front cover screams,
but if my memory serves me correctly
it is indeed the eighth time this has happened.
Where is the truth in the love in that?
Love never fails.
Not everyone can do what feels right without hurting anyone else.
It is as impossible now as it ever was and ever will be.
And now abide faith, hope, love, these three; but the greatest of these is love.
When will we realize we have been given the truth about love?
When will we take it to heart?
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