The death of love

There is nothing called love.
Or rather there is a mechanism
termed love.
And what a god-forsaken phenomenon it is!

It lures you like an aphrodite,
A jungle nymph
Every single time.
It doesn't matter how old
or jaded you are,
You still glimpse the nymph.

It invades your spaces,
Seeps into your brain through your ears,
Spreads into your veins,
takes control and finally owns you.
And the best part?
It deserts you almost as suddenly
as it came.

The death of love it is,
When love dies and kills you with it.

The suicide bomber could be a lover,
The terrorist, the murderer,
could be a lover.

Oh the death of love!
It burns your insides
If this world is a purgatory,
then love is its most ingenious device.