What is this love, Agape Love?
The love, that God is made of?
It lives in the song of the dove,
Sprinkles down, from far above.
The love that we pretend to feel,
Not the true love that we conceal,
How then, do we know what's real?
It can soothe the heart to heal.
Where did it go, why did it leave?
So much here, is meant to deceive,
It's very simple, you must believe,
True feeling, will naturally conceive.
It can't be that hard, a life to fulfill,
Is it that moment; everything's still?
When I feel; that warm tingling chill?
You're beginning, to know, my will.
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Comments about this poem (Agape by G.R. Gaus )
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