Crafty Chaucer

Once again, we are called to step into a crafted experience,
With an assaulting amount of pink scenery and redundant, cliche quotes, enclosed in a heart.
‘Time to play like you’re in love!’, they say.
They assure us they know just what to get our others,
And for the most part they do.
Because they made him/her right after they were done with you.
Poor St. Valentine, thought he’d be remembered as a lover of God,
But that crafty Chaucer gave him a make-over, head to toe,
And now he’s nothing but a patron saint of cheap lust,
Hiding behind a mask of hearts and price tags, demanding: M’aimer!
This day is a reminder to us, though a subtle reminder indeed,
That February 14th is the anniversary of Love’s funeral:
She sat atop her throne built so long ago, with passion in her eyes,
And a smile gracing her face as her ears were bestowed gifts of the most moving and ecstatic
poems and songs, all in her name.
However, a time then came that an usurper cast his eyes upon her throne,
And was consumed in his desire for the power she held.
He traveled across all the lands and seas,
Intoxicating men and women with promises of power and pleasure.
He led a great army of Hessians and capitalists to the Heart of Humanity, where Love’s throne was found.
Bribing the guards and faced with no opposition from the denizens,
(After all, they were lovers not fighters ;])
He stormed into the throne room, and made as if to behead Love herself.
In a great, anti-climactic moment, his blade clattered to the floor mid-swing:
He had caught even just a glimpse of what Love looked like,
And he could not end it.
He felt a great change coming over him, something totally opposed to what was there originally.
This nausea he fought back, feeding off the power-hungry shouts of his mercenary army and whispered:
“Go now, leave this place. This is no longer your world, no longer are these your people. I am what drives them now, they obey me. I am King, now and for eternity. Think not of returning, either. I know the way you can inspire men and women to rise above my promises; no, I have foreseen this.”
With this, he donned the robes the belonged to Love,
and hid his wolfish face behind a mask: EROS.
“Your name is mine now. You can utter Amo to no man without inviting me to his thoughts. I own their minds and you shall have no place there.”
Silently, she withdrew from the chamber that held her for so long,
Heading away and nowhere else.
It was when she faded out of sight, when she had finally gone,
That this new, masked king ordered a great funeral pyre built,
Surrounding an effigy of the exiled queen.
That night, there was a great feast, with wine and women a plenty.
At midnight, they lit the mighty pyre ablaze and watched in a drunken stupor,
As the new king blew the smoke into their heads, clouding the memories of their now-wanderer Demi-Goddess.
“These are my people now” whispered the king, sometimes known as Lust.

Rejoice!
Love has been rediscovered!
No longer is she doomed to wander unnoticed from city to city.
She has returned to us, and in such a time of need.
How do I know, you wonder?
Such a strange question…
I can smell her, of course.
When my face glides across a certain span of sun-kissed skin,
Approaching that place where the shoulder gives way to the neck’s desire to be:
My capacity for smell is consumed by Love’s natural perfume.
You can’t smell her, you say?
Well, I can feel her too.
At night, my dreams being to infiltrate my attention,
And with my other senses dulled,
I become aware of a presence so smooth and gorgeous to the touch,
Conforming to every contour of my body,
A perfect physical mirror image.
You say you’re feeling numb lately?
How’s your hearing?
Her voice is the serotonin laced vessel that carries the hope humanity needs.
It passes through your entirety with a passionate fervor that convinces you she is a linguist of the God-tongue.
My poor child!
You mean to tell me that you cannot see, smell or hear this demi-goddess,
Even after I have told you what to look for?
Aha!
That’s precisely it.
The most powerful way to see her is exactly that: find her with your eyes.
Through your eyes.
I have seen what language could only imagine of dreaming of capturing,
But she deserves the most noble of attempts.
I see the perfume of passion evaporating from her unblemished skin, that I receive gratefully;
I see her body curve at exactly the right time and place, complimenting me perfectly on our stroll through life;
I see her snow covered guards stand down in order to let by a laughter that could entice a mountain.
But most of all, child, when you think you have found her?
Look into her eyes, and see a beauty that you cannot find the word for.
It stares back at you, unearthing your vine-clasped heart with a fire that does not burn.
This, is Love.

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