Val's Poem: Love Bundles, Angles And Handles

Your love bites like a cat, stings and pricks like a needle but still stitches us together as one.

Our candle-lights nights make our meals feel like the real deal.

I know we are many streets ahead of love with many problems and challenges in all the corners.

The bus fights, train arguments and others as enjoyment.

In living memories gone, we have lived and still living. And what do you call that?

But let’s not forget, the search is still on and on for a deeper understanding of love as a tourist, motorist or socialist,

The only view we have of ourselves are those we see and still seeing in the mirrors as they pay us the exact reflections of our participation in love,

Many others we know and see can also see and know of the love we portray, even our neighbours’ eyes can only tell and spell the actual love, actually,

All those who before us have all tested and tasted some sorts of love and yet finding love is somehow difficult on the fountains right up the mountains,

I know we are all receivers of love just at the ends of the receiving ends of love through generations present, past and pending with no ending, and generating different particles of somethings called love,

There is to come many years of love and its legions of legacies and intimacies,

In this sense, DO WE WAKE UP or continue to sleep in love? SHAKE UP or keep melting in the love pots, or STEP UP TO LOVE.

You are THE ABSOLUTE valuations of the parties, weddings and recreations ahead of our love,

Love is complex but still beautiful, wonderful and pitiful in many ways, styles, forms and shapes,

Love has so many different mediums of expressions and narratives. Its true fabric knows no boundaries or countries,

Through love we do not know where we come from and where we are going but still think we have a clue,

The identity of love comes from here, there and everywhere. In Paris, London, Accra or Lagos.

In Abidjan, Dakar or Barbados,
Some are still looking, as one sits refreshingly in loves’ own lounge,

Every now and then, love still cuts one off its cuffs and instead of running away, one stays to play the love game again.

Who ultimately pays at the end?

Author: Wilfred Clarke

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