Love, and its Poetry

Love is merely a self-imposed romance, for without the all-encompassing (and not any less) apprehension of the precise nature, character, philosophy, and understanding within one's object of affection, what attachment has been woven has been with the fabric of romance.
It may be brought up that one may lay oneself bare upon a whim of modesty, humility and self-laceration only to satiate some affection's comprehension and to refute what I have just stated. This, however, is absurd, for no man exists, if he exists wholly outward. There is no being to whom one may lay oneself at their feet, and say "I am.", in this plane, or comprehension of consciousness.
God may be the sole exception, but this is assuming he does not already understand. It would be rebellion and desecration to assume otherwise. And if one may love with such folly and selfish desire, one is not truly holy and saintly. One may be righteous, and a man of good faith and standing in God's eye, but never will one (within such indulgences) stand even in the shadows of where Christ has stood. But perhaps, Christ's love was the biggest romance of all.
And secondly, who is to say one fully understands oneself to begin with?
An inner torment wrangling against the conscious nature and stance of this object of affections in said object, and such an argument reserved wholly and without reserve within, any affection-induced interest will be a false romance, a rewriting of one's own copy of an established scripture.
Those who hold naught any woe or struggle within are, in turn, those who are the most holy, loving, and at rest of man. And they are not to be gazed upon with follies and inhibitions, rather with compassion and thankfulness. For any sleight of affection brings desecration to their souls, and they shall grasp it in its meaning preceding anyone.
Love, therefore, is a mere stroking of the ego and pride in poetry. In fact, the edifice of poetry is, in blunt sense, misunderstanding.