Sensibility

Those who bathe in ignorant bliss,
Might remark, that the most destructive weapon is,
A sharpened spear, dipped in gore,
Or a glinting blade, which has savoured flesh before;

Little do these innocent souls do know,
That, the damage inflicted is inordinately more,
Not when blades pierce through skin,
Neither when bullets still the flow of blood within;

But the real bloodthirsty monster,
Which weakens our knees, paralyses with fear,
Is none other than the most vicious of beasts,
Even with weapons, it can never be beat;

Know to us, by the name of love,
It flits from tongues, floats to hearts,
Consumes us whole,
And with our mind, deigns to play larks;

It renders us helpless,
And poisons our thoughts,
Inclining us to act puerile,
And irreversibly lost;

Every blush, every swoon,
Every touch, every embrace,
Is not but the mischief of,
This malignant sensation;

It manipulates and controls,
Whilst laying impediments in our wake,
Maliciously pulls at the strings of emotion,
And seduces us to become its slave;

If this emotion were a being of substance,
Then it should be put behind bars,
For though it inflicts no physical wound,
Upon the soul, it leaves everlasting scars;

xx Diya Bahukhandi