The Mystery of Love's Voice
by Michael Doyle

A voice can hit you with its memory.
It's the soft reminder of friends and family.
There's nothing more graceful than it could be.
If this entire world didn't need therapy.

In the book of life, it's the page,
Printed with happiness cloaked in rage.
Then you remember that at your age,
It's often safer just to turn the page.

Maybe we should take another look.
We can always choose another book.
Hearts don't happen to work that way.
But maybe... maybe they will someday.

Some prefer an anonymous identity.
It's easier to impress our chosen personality
If we aren't an open book to others' eyes.
So, we refrain from allowing others to analyze.

Tiny steps become our everyday,
Tying together in some new way.
We are unwilling to be taken wrong,
But still wish to find where it is that we belong.

A quiet voice speaks to articulate,
That the first steps for a hermit to anticipate
Is to allow the fetal position to be unfurled,
And faithfully launch oneself into this mad world.

To the voice, we are always confiding.
That is, when we aren't to busy hiding.
From and to those overly busy being shy,
The first word to try is simply, "Hi"

What if life and love are an easy choice?
You simply picture your muse and follow the voice.
It doesn't have to be made overly complicated,
And to overthink is something overrated.

Don't get stuck in the "think", but truly feel,
And be brave enough to make it real.
How is it to be if we don't let it be?
This, I suppose, is love's biggest mystery.

We smile, we laugh, we sing along.
A choice made beckons us to belong.
Then, we fall into that beautiful dream,
Only to wake in the morning, wishing for how it seems.

(c) January 10, 2026   Michael Doyle
All Rights Reserved