Why do I try to write love poetry? (scraps of something in progress)

Love may not sing of itself,
Nor answer calls towards its providence;
And love may not, in its silent
Arduous climb, make footholds
Where none exist.
Love gives no
Guarantee of safety,
Nor offers its hand to help
Others along.

For the life of love
Is the mountain itself,
And its cragged footholds
Are all the promises of safety
One could need.
It is the mute life of quiet assurance,
The self-satisfaction of sharing
In the comfort of the hand which
Proffers it-
((((more poetry here))))

(copyright a(scetic)verse, January 29th, 2009)