Crimson eventides

Replete with cliché mushiness, 

and cheesy dialogues,

that's how all love stories are.

Impacable feelings,

impossible to reign in.

Theoretical chemical reactions 

work their magic in this mortal structure, 

primarily made of

hydrogen, oxygen, carbon, nitrogen, 

the pioneer ingredients of all life, 

blending effortlessly 

with a fleet of other elements. 

The village is painted red, 

with glare of passion.

A stereotype romantic tale, 

so easy to visualize. 

A guest knocks on the

chamber called heart,

and the sentry called brain

fails to announce 

the arrival of storm called love.

Thunderous reverberations of life follow. 

Approximate rhymes

become melodious songs.

And there's

inexplicable, mystifying fixation

with one another. 

We can not allow love.

For a simple reason

that it does not seek permission.

But slowly, gradually, we find 

that our eventides

are suffused with crimson.

Try as we might.

Linking with Wordle #328

Welfare unto all 

Rab rakha