The Label of Love

Something in the blue slit of sky
Something there beneath the horses hoof
Trodden into the mud a foot print of proof
That love lives, in its many colours
In its perennial return as a weed in the garden of Eden
But who calls love a weed?
Most call it a rose, and tend to it nurture it
But is this passion?
This thorny crown of roses we grow
Is it this sex that pushes up all the daisies?
This unearthing of the forgotten death
We sweep under the carpet
Speak of in hushed breath
In quiet tones when we are alone
And face what passes for fear
Of ourselves