Where does my love grow?

In my heart? My mind?

Maybe my soul?

Inquiry stacked

Into a revolver

Shot many a times

I’ve got the wounds to show her

Why all the questions

Of words and mumbles

Just let it be

Don’t be stumbled

I believe that love

Comes in many a form

A bush, tree, maybe an apple

To explain to you, a mind could be torn

Don’t be confused

I’ve only begun

To describe my dreams

Shot out like a gun

Purple, magenta, silver, gold

This only just skims

The world untold

What defines who we are?

Our language? Image?

Maybe our soul?

Who decides this?

Where does it start?

I’m being a bit hypocritical

From how this poem would start

Questions smushed against our knowledge

What if we can’t suffice

An answer worth talking?