A ruffled feather in the wind
Tossed in airy waves
Churned by notions of grandeur
Such is the beginnings of love.
Clouded eyes reflect illusions
Where personalities are lost
In representations of perception
Pantomime performances
By clowns with broken limbs
Signing a language they don’t know
Or will ever try to understand.
When you say “I love you,”
To whom are you speaking?
The man or the vision
The woman or the dream
The human
Or the fantasy
Designed to pleasure the creator?
Can you truly believe
That your snapshot can portray
The billion words and thoughts
That dot the constellations
That guide their every day?
Can you call this love?
Some do.
Moonlit Poetry 