What is this urge, this force, this key to life

that binds us to our existence?

How can something so intangible, so indefinable

be so strong?

It is more than love, though love itself can bear

the weight of humanity in all its inhumanity to man.

What is it that we recognise in the other?

The compassion, the passion and the guts

to see life through.

The depth of the encounter coexisiting with the mundane.

That fellow spark one once knew was in oneself.

Does one allow the flame to reignite

or resign oneself to the ash, a memory flickering to its death

upon the hearth of weariness?