Dancing With Love’s Oasis

How enigmatic this enticement called love

This often-mistaken mirage of chance.

Why must the impassioned hope of youth,

An oasis one seeks repeatedly,

Believe there is reward at the end of infatuation?

Such is the oasis-like quenching of desperation.

Might trusting one’s dry and labor-intensive trek

Ultimately provide comfort for the world-weariness of hope?

Even as the young, getting old, trudge forward,

Believing there is affection in aging’s essence.

They often find sure footing is betrayed by the quicksand of deceit,

Suffocating the confidence of intelligence once breathing freely.

Such a mystifying effort,

This mirage of youthful fantasies,

This thirst for tangibility,

The virus of one’s aging oasis.

Yet…

To dance with love’s oasis

Is to survive alongside time’s ageless hope,

Provide satiation of purpose,

Moisten the lips to speak gratitude,

Afford balm to sooth the pangs of disappointed love.

And, oh, the reward of tenacity,

The freedom to whirl with love’s ceaseless flow,

Even as passion may dizzily induce stumbling backwards

As we grapple to atone for past mistakes.