Love is not a battlefield

Love is not a battlefield.

Your victory is not my loss,

I can not win if you lose.

You can not win if I'm weak.

It is a silent prayer,

Reverberating on a desolate peak.

The closing of our eyes in

Hidden devotion, hands folded,

We clutch endlessly at straws

Of hope, like the feathers

Of the elusive firebird,

Stealing golden apples

From our garden; we hide

In corners, just to catch a glimpse

Of this maginificent creature,

Crimson and ochre, 

Fire burning in our sky,

And it escapes us each time.

Leaving behind nothing but a feather,

A reminder of the blazing night

And scalded hands, of ashen cheeks.

Yet we persuade to trap 

Its intangible form.

We can't. For there are no words

Or promises that can describe love.

No wars or casualties that declare defeat.

For that flame which lives within us,

Is not to be found outside.

You can not demean it

With talk of you and me.

There is no other, no

Decisions for a better future,

Time does not exist, nor ego.

It lives in infinity,

A fluttering leaf carried by gentle wind.

Between the shunya and the brahmand,

Is love. The nothing and the everything.

Love is not a battlefield.

It is the white flag of purity.

Not an exchange of unsaid words.

It is everything that creates us.

The dimensions we cross,

The acceptances we fear.

And when we are gone,

Love stays. And when we disappear,

Love appears. And when we are tired,

Love refreshes. And begins again.

And ends again. And begins again.

It does not keep score.

It only knows how to heal.

Love is not a battlefield.

Love is not a battlefield.