Love, it is a funny word.
It means so many different things.
To different people.
Love can be a happy word.
When young lovers,
Or old lovers,
Walk hand in hand, content,
With one another.

Love can be a glowing word.
Used by the bubbly,
Unthinking extrovert.
Who simply loves;
Children, macrame, or tennis.
As the case may be.

Love can be an empty word.
For scheming manipulators,
Who say they love.
When what they mean to,
Do, is to tie them,
To themselves.

With chains of obligation felt.
That one must love someone,
Who professes love.
But the professor be incapable,
Of feeling, or of knowing,
What it means.

Love can be a dirty word.
Where men lurk in public toilets,
To pick up casual,
Partners for a quick coupling.
For guilty,
Perverted pleasure.

Love can be a sordid word.
Where hard-faced girls,
Display their thighs to,
Men who ogle them salaciously.
Wondering if they can afford,
To slake their lust between
Inviting, insensitive thighs.

Whether the price is worth,
Being hated or despised by,
Sad and empty women,
Who have lost their souls,
To mammon and to the seedy,
Sordid men who use them.
And abuse them.

Love it is a lovely word;
When cleansed of evil connotations.
When young lovers,
Or old lovers,
Or all lovers,
Walk hand in hand.
Content with one another.