I dream of love as children dream of God,
some mystery that makes the planet whole,
beyond all comprehension, wonder, awe;
men helpless to this mighty magnet’s pull.
But I am flawed, this soul cannot compute
the chemicals from whence love plays its lure.
I do not know these songs, no lyre, no flute —
as for a beating heart, I am not sure.
I am a whole, a shattered piece of glass,
unique dimensions, I am not a twin,
and though I’ve always seen my soul as glass
my eyes are weak, afraid to look within.
Immune to love, my body’s greatest flaw,
it circumscribes all nature’s greatest laws.