Call It Love

When I sit to ponder
Where love truly lives
In the head or in the heart
I just sit and wonder

How does it find its way
Into the heart and make it throb
Making it thus skip a bit
At the sight of the heartthrob

Cardiologists can’t tell us how
Nor microbiologists its etiology
From the way it infects the heart
By making its pulse grow fonder

Microscopes become useless
When it comes to diagnose love
Biochemists blame hormones
And evolutionists accuse genes

Some say it’s like a ditch
No wonder we fall in it
And sometimes become hurt
That we need more than a stitch

When physicists fall in love
They forget time and space.
When the religious fall in love
They link it with their God.

Mathematicians can’t help it too
For it is a constant
And not like their variables
That they can manipulate.

Some call it an illusion
Others say it’s a delusion
And yet another a disease
From which we cannot cease.

Whatever they call this love
I am truly not satisfied
And go now to ask God
What this love truly is.
Paul Oche

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