On the subject of God’s sense of humor,
No longer can I harbor doubt,
Tried to pass it off as a rumor,
But I’ve found the old Satirist out:

Trafficking in tragic lovers’ desires,
We do disservice by our naive hearts;
While our Cyranos silver-tongued sing,
How rarely we muster the part.

Ever ill-prepared for that moment,
When the curtain draws down ‘cross the stage,
We file one by one from Love’s theatre,
Where expressions spring, grand, off the page;

Soon we’ve made our way home, to where Love lives,
With worn patches in the soles of its shoes,
From the miles meandered, despairing,
That it lacks any lusterful hue;

We’ve wandered to fields gleaming greener,
Having disdained the offering made,
Insisting on seeking Love’s fire,
While taking for granted its shade.

Till the moments we’ve wasted in searching,
Pile up mountainous on our kitchen floor,
And we chance to take notice of all that we’ve had,
All along while we looked yet for more;

And Love’s script now we toss out the window,
For though its costume be threadbare and thin,
If, more often than not words forsake us-
The scuff-marks explain where we’ve been;

And the bandaids that hold Love together,
May not be the steel bonds I dreamed,
But finally, my darling, I’ve earned you-
And- I see-
Not all is gold that at first seemed.