It doesn't really die
cursed with being deathless
it drags on beguiling itself
with new forms and names
With passions still aflame
a flare or two to blame
it slips easily into
the cloak of hatred
With intensity drained
water down the bridges
it settles at once
for enduring indifference
Familiarity and contempt
are often quick escapes
Habits borne of habitation
keep the once-smitten
sighing in nonchalance
Even the death
of the once-loved
is no escape
from this ailment
of all ailments
endemic to hearts
parasite of sentiments
Wish it not
for the worst of enemies
Love,
what else?
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