The Futility of Finding True Love: A Poem

 

Fools go to any length to fondle a maiden’s bosom,

To kiss her supple lips and savour her full blossom.

The wise crave for a pure heart and a kindred spirit,

A gentle soul and a grace inspired by the Holy Spirit.

It is something so rare; it almost does not exist,

But its truth and purity, we just cannot resist.
 

We always agonize over something elusive,

The futility of which is very delusive.

To heaven, we shout, ‘isn’t true love meant to be free?’

‘Yes,’ the answer, ‘but not as cheap as leaves on a tree!’
 

Why do we hunger for love, when like fools we’re free,

Free to sin, so sweet to copulate on an old tree?

To mate and yet mate again; to fill our loins with fire;

The like of which we love, the joy of which we don’t tire.
 

Is it wisdom to tread the rough narrow road to truth?

Does chastity, purity and trust bear that much fruit?

From where I stand, it’s a heavy load for me to bare,

Grouping in the dark for answers with no time to spare.
 

The futility of this is more enterprising,

More fulfilling, more rewarding—and not surprising—

Than the sexual conquest of a ravishing beauty queen;

Sensual and voluptuous and altogether too keen.

 

 

The futility of finding true love: see the fool

Blindly pursue pleasure, even into a cesspool;

Love eludes her as it does the wise and that’s painful;

For when age corrupts her flesh, there is nothing gainful;
 

No lover to look up to, no friend to hold her dear;

Heartbreak’s the price for not having the courage to dare

To risk certain doom for the chance of finding real love

Or as consolation, a true friend, a pure white dove.
 

The futility of finding true love: dare you seek?

What you find is the travesty of truth at the peak,

Where the best among us so shamelessly confess

The possession of a spirit their souls do not profess.
 

The futility of finding true love: you can’t give

What you do not have: stop the futile search, quietly leave,

Abandon the quest for something that cannot be found;

Except in sad love songs where it is a mournful sound
 

And in the dictionary before the word ‘stupid’.

‘Love’ is Eve’s creation, hers and the delinquent Cupid’s.

Their kind of ‘love’ is inspired by hormonal surges;

That experience that inspired the Sodomites’ orgies.

 

 

The futility of finding true love: now I know

That certainly, you cannot reap where you do not sow.

Finally, the futile quest have ended in Judea

At a place called Golgotha, with not a single Jew there.
 

Like all who seek the truth, we end up at Calvary;

Will our prayers be answered? Are we free from slavery?

True love flows from His bleeding hands and the crown of thorns.

Are we worthy of His love, He whose body is torn?
 

Maisamari David February 2003