Love is radiation. Intended to spread its presence over those trusting of it. What do we have of love, other than simple belief?
We believe in love to do the right thing. It is never expected to manipulate, and then ask for something in return. Love, when denied, creates Hell. One sinks, without love. One lays in wait for death, without the eyes of a loved one to see, in their passing moments.
The infant being born, has been born from a woman in pain.
She is now a mother.
Upon one time in a day of decision, there she stood, this woman, to bare her vulnerable self to the man she trusted to adore it.
Lace and heel, mixed in contrast to her skin, a soapy white. So much purity had adorned the look in her eyes. So much safety to be wanted of a man who’d paw at her flesh. Lust and desire, melded in him, at that moment, and he took her in his arms. He embraced her lascivious expression, kissed it with so much praise, and soon grew a new limb from beneath.
They joined in the embrace of a marriage meant for this.
But, an infant without a neck is merely another pain to bare, for the world to see of its presence. We know pain by how it feels, and cannot deny it. Though, we’ll make an added effort to love.
We’ll love, because all we feel is the pain, and not the love.
Love comes not with the word called “more”, because we already have it. What is there to recall? What is there to remember, when the love has not died?
An infant without a neck, is now an infant not ever to be hanged.
Not by the pain that would always strangulate it, in this moment of innocence. Yet, the now-mother feels pain, and the now-father knows that what will be raised, requires a tad of discipline, so that pain is transformed into strength.
A child without a neck is now a child still sunken in the belief, and naturally the child would be, that he or she cannot involve themselves in misunderstood matters.
An adult without a neck is non-existent. Though, it may exist among the sheltered or yet, the ignorant.
Love will come to raise, and so that added neck is but five or six inches more added to the height of a person. Love raises, and so, what had been pain, is no longer the strangulation, but now the kiss.
Upon the mother’s neck, the man, now a father, offers that kiss, like a droplet of dew let off the blade of grass.
Modern Romanticism 