Sonnet 14

To write of love spreads love.
To write of hate spreads hate.
Energy unseen, what we think of,
what we think of we create.*
Even the tenant of writing a story -
to be considered a story at all -
there must be tension in all it's glory.
First thrust love to the wall.
In the end if love has won,
it is only by the edge.
Do we think so little of humanity?
Are we bored not on this ledge?
My evolving purpose is thwarted,
ironically here, the battle reported.


*in the future, anywhere