Love is a passion of ineffable ecstasy. The vibes of the heart, emanating as fumes of aromatic olfaction, take wings of flight and fancy and ride to the rubicon of the firmament as a condor, oblivious to the parade of life underneath it.
Who can claim to define it? While others merely read the word 'love', those swathed by its satiny fabric feel the tactual luxury of its silkiness. The reverberating pulsations of the heart, rhythming with each and every sinew, metastasize the aeonian fixation of love. Some say it's morbid, but those who have never kissed the petals of roses always fear the thorns.
The language of love isn't comprehensible in a listless soul. He only who reads more than just the semantic links can actually revel those inexplicable moments of artful titillation. And that is probably the best thing a person can ever wish to have.
"God has never made anything better than love"-the words remain as true since time immemorial as the very genesis of our identity. Let its magic and mojo continue to mesmerize us under the marquee of this world.
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