Speak to me O Muse of that thing which we call love

That is washed away in the sands of the mighty just as easily as it is held in the hearts of the brave

Sing to me a battle hymn of he who is unrepentant in his gaze and she who rose to meet it unashamed

I do not want to hear of it’s sorrier and weaker cousin, pain

That is but a shrivelled snivelling thing misshapen and ill-omened

Arriving unannounced at the very best laid table for two and crying in the wilderness for mercy

Mercy!

As though that weak-willed whining wet wart of a word belongs in a poem about love

It has been said at too many times by authors fine and dandy that love is that which contains mercy and grace and all the other pasty underbaked goods of feeling

To which I say they have never truly known what it is to love

For love is violet and intemperate, it clashes like the sea against the rocks beating on a weathered heart until it is all drawn out in the tide

It is endless like the ocean and vast in its knowing, unfair in its judgements and peculiarly cruel to its most devoted slaves

Love, my Muse, is as far from Mercy as Heaven is from the Earth

For surely if love had any mercy it would not assail me so with pain in separation

Like the sea I am crying out to be filled with the song and rhythmic oar of my lover

But I feel instead only pain