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
