"love is not a fickle thing"

Love is not a fickle thing

to brush off with time

or the age of ease.

Love is not a weakness,

laughable, nor demeaning.

Love does not explode in immediation,

does not shut off with the lights

or escape away with a fancy.

Love does not twitch

or fade

it is not a kiss

to be wiped off.

Love is not a pillar of salt

to be washed away or forgotten,

shoved aside or gagged.

Love stands for always,

crumbling only when the physical

vessel that protects our vulnerable hearts

begins to decay.

Love is a mountain that falls

only when the waters of forever

have washed away the memories and pain

the heartache and shame.

Love continues to grow

in patterns and forms unrecognizable.

Limbs of souls stronger than our mortal imaginings,

roots of creatures more corrupt

than our most feeble moments.

Love is forever changing

with a bitter taste

or crooked smile.

Into resentment.

Or acceptance.

(I've never been good at revising poetry. I tend to just sit and do, scribbling it out as fast as it will come. Never really thinking to move or fix. All my poetry is rough draft poetry).