Is love so fickle a thing, should it be treated as a thing...when cheaply given, equally cheaply thrown away? Should something so frail be known as something so strong? Need man the love of his brother? The love of his father? The love of his wife? The love of his God?
What beyond these fateful rivers flows with such abundant honey save for the sounds of young lovers smiling through their held hands? Need we always seek out the breath that comes in the form of promises of eternal care? Dare we trust in another so thoroughly that their own blood becomes more valuable than our own?
I have loved one man so much as to say that my blood lacked value when weighed against his own. I have loved in such manner and faith that the very thought of such love causes Shakespeare to weep and Poe to shut the light against dawn. Many warlocks and villains have played their hands against me, always seeking to crack the glass chalice that holds all my overflowing care for the one whom I call Love. Everyday must I be on my guard against folly, against doubts and fears and tears, while eternally keeping faith that all my effort and strength is not wasted, but rather, invested in something greater than myself.
I have seen, by friends and family hands, love such as mine treated as though its value were more when it was melted down and sold, than it was as a finished artifact. They see the shine of gold and call it silver, sell it as silver, spend it as silver, and then, discard what they've purchased as though it some trinket collected from the fair grounds.
Need I fear for my own heart, which has anchored itself with my love and devotion, and there by taken all the blows that my love has withstood? Need I retract what I have and count my losses, while surviving one more day with a gore, mite-infested soul? Or do I keep on, with wounds still fresh, and continue as though unblemished?
Let me speak plainly.
The man to whom my love is all spent, the man whom has kept my sanity intact, saved me from countless injuries, and healed the many that I have sustained, is there anyway I might put my errors behind and stand beside you without fear of being lost in your peripheral vision? A shrew once said...
Place your hands below your lovers foot:
In token of which duty, if he please,
My hand is ready, may it do him ease.
My hand be there along the path to ease the way of love and its sometimes passing... and be my strength only that of a woman, it is a strength that does not wax or wane. Loving as we do, us Poets and Warriors so, it is our way to fall in love, and against all odds, never fall back out.