Love seems such a flimsy net to catch so much. So many beasts, capable of tearing a man to shreds, get tangled in its soft web.

Stories are the only creatures to escape from the net. 
One tells itself: 
To love just one, 
and lose that love, 
and find it fugitive, hiding from itself, 
terrified of each trembling reflection caught between the light and dark.

I saw it with my only eyes 
and felt it beating in the same old
heart that I found in a womb 
and lost in places where only the 
lonesome flowers grow.