It Sneaks up on You.

Tonight I am plagued by a migraine and other such ailments and started writing a brief poem of this week’s theme in hope’s to return to a warm bed and slide into nurofen-fuelled slumber. So I started writing it as goes underneath:
A month of desolate cold and stormy showersPunctuated by pancakes and red curled flowersBuds on branches and first rays of gold lightGently warming the land after winters blight
Valentines approaches with all the power
Of making you feel loved, or lonely in the late hour
……
Halfway through I paused and read it through and not only did I dislike what I’d written intensely but I don’t think of Valentine’s Day as “flowers and hearts”. Until the past year, I hated the concept. I was the original cynical cold-hearted bitch dressed in black and wincing when I saw all the crap they line up on shelves. But then a miracle happened and I fell in love (I promise I’ll try not to get too mushy) and all the love songs made sense, I started writing poetry that came out of nowhere that was fiercely intense and I was thoroughly confused. I don’t see myself curled up on the sofa watching a romance with him, eating rich chocolates out of a box. I also don’t see myself accepting a big bouquet of roses from him or easily letting him pay a big bill at a restraunt after a meal. He knows me well enough now to know all this. I hope he knows me well enough now to smile about it.
To tell you the truth, I was utterly overwhelmed when I first fell in love. It wasn’t all just hearts and flowers and sweetness. I was terrified. Cowardice had nothing to do with it and it certainly didn’t win out. I wrote a poem in the first few months of this strange turn in my life, and I did read it out at the last DGP meeting, and anyone who was there is going to hear it again. Sorry. Though you are hearing it with context now; without my cowering and stuttering at a microphone. The poem is how I really felt when I fell in love.
Deep inky blue and roiling with stormy chaos,The jagged tips of the waves sharply tipped,Yet waxed wispy silver, soft like a web
By the violent winter moon.
For the moon is our deceiver in these tales,
Painting mystery into tales of raging chaos,
Like stormy waves glistening soft, and the moonlit ocean
Seems a perfect metaphor for the turmoil of love.
Like the ocean, love knows no boundaries in where it should touch
Such as gender, and time much to Shakespeare’s dismay
It only gets boxed by the barriers mankind throw at it,
But just as the ocean does those inevitably corrode away.
I feel I can relate to a metaphor of a moonlit ocean
Having gazed at love all my life and not having felt it truly
Not having felt the pandemonium that the ocean contains,
Only glimpsing the peace and deception that the moonlit surface portrays.
But now I know how it feels to be cast in, dragged into the tempest
Of emotion that crashes and beats the rocks in symphony
Tearing down sanity, the storm becoming my skin
And dreams now have nothing on the reality you have created
Nothing so vivid as your eyes haunt my fantasy.