Poetry is love in the form of words

Poetry is, 'love in the form of words.'

The world without love, doesn't move;

life without love, has no meaning.

Poetry without love, does not exist.

Just like we deem that poetry

is inexistent in our being.

Without love, the cloud of poetry would cease to impart wisdom, and ergo we'll stay forever unquenched in the absence of its rains.

Without love, words of poetry would lose the lustre of their being and would be eclipsed, no end.

Lovers of poetry are lovers themselves,

and writers of poetry are the greatest lovers. 

Each in every distinct way possible.

Even those like me whose bleak state of mind juxtapose with the idea of love. They're weird creatures. They say they don't love and hang a necklace of serrated stones around their necks in the name of love.

It leaves bruises and patterns of brokenness but they continue doing it nonetheless.

It's a fallacy that lovers divulge in love for other lovers, other individuals. 

Love is the greatest ingredient, in the recipe of the art of poetry.

Lovers of God, would go to the highest peak of a snow soaked mountain, and recite hymns of their own making. 

They would praise Him in their most jewelled words, and they would say words don't justice to His glory, they would say that all the good words in the world combined would be insufficient bespeaking in His reverence.

The one in love with God's creation, that is, the nature, would gaze at the sky and be awed with each heavenly body, he would speak of the Venus, as if it actually is the mythical being it was named after. 

He would be in love with each blade of each plant. He would smell each grain of the soil and say 'The air is luscious with the pleasant, dewy petrichor of the post-rain hours.' He would admire the delicate petals of the Bleeding Heart and explain how his own heart reflects it. 

Lovers of nature would dive in its lap in the enactment of romanticism.

Lovers of aestheticism would spin a symbolic meaning on everything. 

Parnassians of the north. 

They would write lyrically, even while speaking of the most monotonous of entities.

A lover of another lover would paint his skies with the colours of his lover's eyes.

 He would synchronise his heartbeat with the frequency of his lover's smile.

He would read his lover's favourite books just to please them. He would confine himself in a world where no one exists but him and his lover. The lover of another lover is the most daring being. He would risk everything to be with his beloved. He would turn into a poet even if poetry wasn't his favourite thing to do.

He would compose the finest works of poetry, just about his lover's quirks.

And then come the lovers of darkness. They dip their quills in a bowl full of blood which never runs out.

Their eyes ache of darkness and yet they love it nonetheless.

Because that's what love does you see, it can't be vanquished even if it gives the greatest of pains one can bear. Lovers of darkness don't believe in love. They're the defeated ones.

They inscribe poetry insulting love in every way possible, not knowing that love is driving them at the same moment.

Lovers of darkness hate life. Lovers of darkness are in love with death.

They speak of death as if it is the only thing that they most fervently wish for.

Their poetry is tainted with tear stains and trauma.

You see, poetry can't exist without love.

And hereby, I admit, I have been the lover of all kinds. Does that make me a universal poet? Or a hopeless case without a hook?