Where is the love?

Where is the love
In pain or suffering?

Where is the love
In hatred and war?

Where is the love
In death?

I rave and rant
About this elusive love

I bemoan
Its startling absence

Then the anger
Exhausts itself

And I am back
where I started

Even as I berate
My 'lapse'

Something has allowed
My outburst

And something allows
My self-judgement now

Something is ok
with me
exactly as I am

I don't have to be different
or better
In its presence

It is equally present
No matter who or what I am

Can there be
A more restful love?