A Mood Called Love
A mood is simply a season of thought;
from sunrise; until sundown;
within the soul every mood is wrought;
even the serious; becomes the clown.
Our thoughts shape what we become;
some even think they’re the smartest;
all our divisions shall soon succumb;
we are the portrait of the Artist.
The Artist has a symphony of moods;
the weather becomes their display;
sometimes, in anguish, the artist broods;
this portrait falling in decay.
The Artist paints in a kingdom above;
the painting transformed to desire;
the Master commanded that all must love;
or be consumed by passion’s fire.
Our moods are simply the climate of life;
manifestations of all kinds of weather;
the mood, called love, becomes our wife;
with whom; we’re to live forever.
My moods vacillate from happy to sad;
sometimes, I swim in my anger;
when weather changes; I become glad;
and my peace averts any danger.
Life is the hurricane of hate and desire;
conflicts, somehow, fit the same glove;
peace resides in the eye of love’s fire;
and, I’m in the mood for love.
Monty 9/6/24. # 2,323