It is that our heroism ignites our own flag stabbed in the ground’s hole, that we know how love also feels. Oh, the weakness, the sicknesses that are raised so much like the flag, that it never stands evenly. It motions with the winds that run like treading fear through a less-than-stable mind.
Love. That is our emotion of not an emotion. It is not an emotion, when such perfection is not comprehended by our flawed selves. We make the error in calling love an emotion, and proves ourselves as an error. So perfect, is love, and never a slight hint of understanding of it by any scientific method. It is weakness that we feel, so often like the heroism.
We, the lovers, are so weak to see who loves us.
We, the lovers, are still so strong to see who we love, when we find their danger is something to ignite them, as the flag. Their danger, their fire, their fear, compels our action to protect. It is not ever in that moment, that we feel weak.
For love does not leave a tear to drop from an eye, without its catching before it reaches the Earth. It would only grow another standing statue, another beloved, who faces her hands in the infinite sorrows.
Our rain, is the same as our pain, the listless fears that spiral out of our eyes in the form of raindrops. Our weakness, is our want to be loved. Our strength, is our want to love.
Present strength, as one would love. Present weakness, as one would be loved.