The mystery of love

The mystery of love

It does not knock, but enters soft
As light through shutters, slipped aloft.
It leaves no fingerprints or clues,
Yet rearranges all your hues.

It speaks in silent, rushing blood,
A language felt, but not understood.
It grows a garden in the chest
From seeds you never knew possessed.

It is the question and the key,
The lock, the loss, the liberty.
The oldest map, with no true north,
That leads the whole soul stepping forth.

And when you think you have its measure,
It becomes a different treasure.
The only mystery that seems
More real within our wildest dreams.

Author: Nketiah S.Y. Simon

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