Romantic Intelligence, or, the Clouds Around the Sun

Love is both a vice and a curse,

A blessing in which you find yourself immersed;

A progressive, regressive, digressive pursuit,

In which you lose yourself many times in search of a route,

To lasting happiness, which still blinks from afar;

Like the distant light of a parked car,

As if someone forgot to switch off the high beams,

Or is there a reason that this pitch blackness now gleams?

Love causes you to return broken patterns,

In which insecurity orbits like the 62 moons of Saturn.

Escape it, escape it! Find solace in pain!

Find solace in the left or right side of your brain!

Like the frontal assault during Op Barbarossa,

You seem to confuse old Taiwan with Formosa.

In doubles, you see, when your love stares you down,

You want nothing more but to be her great crown,

So you let down your walls and pull-back your defenses;

Your protective soldiers fall back to the fences.

You talk with 'I,'

And realize that you're oft wrong,

Yet prior to this, you sung yourself an old swan song,

To convince yourself that your views were God-given;

Despite the true fact that you define Atheism.

Prior to this, no one countered your 'great' words;

Or, if they did, often you considered them of herds,

Which had no capacity to understand life;

They would much quicker fall towards the shaft of the knife.

You rework the office inside of your head,

And forget all the things about love you once said,

When ex-girlfriends had dumped you like a sack of potatoes;

And would verbally stain you with far-flung tomatoes.

Yet tossed in the mix are the words of the stars,

Telling you whose compatible, is it Venus or Mars?

Forget the external, this love is but yours and but hers.

Never let the rest determine,

As you're the connoisseur.