Mutation of the heart

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What greater act of nature is there than transformation
of a caterpillar to a butterfly 
from a sinner to a saint?

One God, they say, but biblical scripture says, 
even the devils believe that and shudder. 

What then is this life?  A series of conversations
or apparent events that leave trails for us to reminisce?

In matters of love, only the heart speaks, 
but the lust of the eyes and the flesh mutates the heart. 

So what words are left when there is nothing left
or when nothing has really begun? 

Let not my life turn again into a series of tests
or a matter of disobeying God, my conscience, 
the voice within. 

But I pray, as I know the truth of my situation, 
not for what but how.  

For it is this, and timing, that are far more important
to deal not with a withered ego, a broken spoon. 

For it is but once love comes along 
and when you find it, surely you will recognise it
and hold on to it for dear life, 
until you realise that life is no longer as it once was
and that love as you have always understood it 
is different altogether and you have misunderstood the concept all along, 
only to find that now you have to tell yourself and remember 
love as real as an ostrich, with its head in the sand, 
or a peacock meowing along. 
I understand but nothing of this concept of love, 
for I feel as if I've searched all my life, 
but somehow the right one never seems to come along. 

So let not this feeling, this doubt, this bewilderment, 
be the measuring stick for my personal success.  

It is this, yes, this, for which he craves, 
and is willing to take what he can get, 
or perhaps I, blind as a bat, cannot see
what he is willing to give up for me, 
or better still, for God, for love.  


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