This Thing Called Love Poem by Bernard Kennedy

This thing- das ding- is centre piece of living.
You are dead if its not abounding or at least frozen in this existential.
I know it cannot be weighed,
I know it cannot be measured or held,
or placed beneath a microscope to be
examined.
It is the depth charge, fathoms deep,
below the surface and takes a sounding,
from itself, its hearts desire.
Desire the single signal pilot light of being.
And yet, without and with,
a difference holds and grips our waking day
and sleeping night its dreams.
Lost and found,
a freedoms sway,
and seeing goes from monochrome
to color and back again.
It is more real than word,
and then what word can I use?
except love.