The unborn emotion,
Crosses a little ferrying distance,
A synapse and an impulse,
Like a ferry ride over a space,
To metamorphose from dopamine
To oxytocin, from feeling good,
To become the endurance,
Of an endearment. A steeplechase,
More than a marathon,
A tortoise more than a rabbit.
The chicken and the egg situation
It was in the Austen times,
And the egg and chicken, modern love is.
A reminder that just like a hatching egg,
Love too quakes from the inside,
Until a yellow chick climbs out.
The chicken suits most of us wear,
Before we fall madly in love,
And yet, we cross the big bad road,
Like the Beetle Boys, to trip and fall.
Dreaming of that day when you will don
A black tuxedo, and pledge a vow, that charges
Only a small premium, for a life policy.
The black box, the recorder, our hearts
Are, in auto-pilot and turbulence,
And the kleptomaniacs we are,
A lifetime of stolen moments,
A shoebox the size of the human mind,
Storing little shoestring moments,
The shoe sizes we try to fill badly,
And the talus bone that makes us
All Achilles-es, born as huckleberries
Dreaming of hackberries.
And the intrinsic value we are all bestowed,
The human currency we become,
Not for the fruits or flowers we bear,
Only for the wood inside,
Of an otherwise skin-deep bark.