So what is love? What does it mean;
This thing that hits so suddenly?
It strikes from nowhere; moves unseen
And to the heart its arrows fly.
Before we have a chance to hide,
It seeks us out unerringly,
And causes stutters, heat inside,
Which turns to blush when love’s nearby.
Where the defence to this attack?
We have to face that there is none.
No friend there is to watch our back.
All of the barracades have gone.
There is but one end to this story:
Surrender, and bathe in the glory.
© Ruth Twyman Lockyer January 2012