by Edward Ahern
Love is stepped cliffs
Of willingness to suffer.
Sheer drops from obsession to indifference.
The tiny mesa top holds less than a score
For whom I would give up my self.
Then a free fall to friends and relatives
Who are given affection and time
And a precipice further down
Acquaintances are doled-out words.
And at chasm bottom are strangers
Who receive pro forma prayers and grudged money.
It’s impossible to love all of humanity
When I merely like myself.
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