Love? What is love? Like the flesh-weak heart from which it stems, it pumps, it warms, it circulates, it makes dreams real, inspires hope, moves us smiling from one day to the next, infectious, consuming, until such time the delicate mechanisms no longer work. And then they grind and shudder like a great and weary clock,
pheromones, hormones, inclinations all conspiring to end their streaming.
Love grows cold, snow and ice, the mind no longer caring, the eyes no longer seeing, blind to vivid colour and to gentle touch. Love like cigarettes enjoyed until the lungs turn black. Addictive, love as a stone weighs heavy on the chest and mind, torturing the cupid fool until his skin begins to burn and blister, backed into a corner like an animal for slaughter, afraid, unsure, not knowing what will come and remembering not what came before, thinking to himself, my harp, my wings, my fortune withers on the vine, pounds become pennies and pennies dwindle to a poverty of broken soul, my soul.
What is this clinging film that conspires with atmosphere to storm the barricades, to bring down the love-lost soldier, love-smacked, love-torn? Love like a war photo fades to sepia brown: forgotten moments, staring out of Time like so many dead men looking for their bones.
Submitted by Andrew Hinkinson