The most precious thing in the world
Lies neither in the earth itself,
Nor upon its surface.
It is not money, to be sure,
For what is money but paper, which fools amass
In hopes of buying this elusive thing.

It cannot be gold, for gold is but dirt
Shiny as it may be; little more than rocks.
Neither can it be diamonds, for they
Are nothing but coal compressed over time
Completely worthless, beautiful as they are.
Nor is it time itself, for time is man’s
Own invention to mark the passing of his life.
It exists only as a milestone toward death.
The universe cares not about time.

No, the most precious thing, that which much money,
Gold and diamonds have been spent to secure,
Is utterly intangible and certainly not for sale.
Many great wars have been fought,
The most beautiful art has been rendered,
The most wonderful words have been written,
Indeed the entirety of the passion of all
Humanity has been in homage to this one thing.

Evidence of its existence
We see each day, everywhere we look,
Yet no man may gaze upon it directly,
Nor hold it in his hands.
Instead, even when we try not to see it,
We are thrown shreds of its existence
To remind us that it is.

It has no color, nor taste, nor scent,
Yet every color, taste and scent
We experience may remind us of it.
It has no place, nor feel, nor sound
Yet so many of these draw us forth unto it.
We know it exists, for deny it as we may,
Out of fear or pain or innocence lost,
It calls us each with siren song
From our first breath to our last,
And perhaps longer, for eternity.

Always there, yet most elusive
We dance around it all our lives,
Hoping to capture it, when in reality,
All we need do is but surrender ourselves;
Become a part of it; allow it to possess us;
Flow through us; for it will not be owned.

It can, however, own us…
But only if we let it.

Such is Love.

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