Storms, whenever they erupt,
Ruin becomes their prime option,
Sparing neither the rich or poor,
Neither beauty nor ugliness,
Devoid of all disparities,
Without any mercy they strike,
Leaving a trail of mass destruction.

Likewise, love whenever it crops-up,
Crosses all parameters.
It’s instant, gushing and infinite,
Yet dutiful, trustful and blissful.
No force whatever can curtail it,
No power whatever can stall it.
An element of invaluable gift,
It possess the instinct of sacrifice.

No doubt, love is like a storm ...
Not sometimes but every time.
But ruin is not its option,
Instead caring and caressing,
Loving and love pleasing,
But sometimes, oh heart,
Why do storms rage within you,
Make you crazy and traumatic?
An outcome of getting ditched, 
Or unbearable platonic pangs?
Yet the ocean of love in hearts
Opt for self-destructible sacrifice.
That’s the storm love possesses.