Love

Love is the greatest mystery to me:
I am still not quite sure what it entails,
or if love without pain can even be.

Love stories all read like false fairy tales;
love: the monster at the end of the book -
(why if you talk of love she always pales).

I could not recognize it at a look;
perhaps I have never seen it before,
perhaps I have only seen what it took.

I have seen the results of keeping score,
and what neglect does, what abuse does, too:
reduces love apparatus to gore.

Yet each stranger, I wonder about you,
whether you could teach me to love again;
so far there have not been any who do.

Thus all I know of love has been much pain,
no matter from whether maiden or swain.