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~~~ Simply Her ~~~
~ Simply Her ~
Should a final kiss, which dignified thy lips with rubescent, poppy crown swear of its own absence for ever? I should ne’er breaketh oath but a vow of never seeing thee again I would not keep. Hearken henceforth; ‘twas the anthem you never sang to me; the one you retained in thy deepest heart that I found the most beautiful; the one which reached out to sojourn through other ballads in hopeful conation, to illustrate how you really felt but could not; mental jerks, endeavouring to connect, but were lost in misunderstandings of the heart. But know that your name is scribed upon the clouds and in the sunshine; the fearless trailblazer of the early bright; verily, thou art the argent polish, etched into the ivory glitz of a lunar tint, courageous orb of an ageless eve.
As a purple saxifrage grips the craggy mountains, oft-times trembling beneath her nocturnal bead, so art ye the lonely flower which barely exists upon the silhouette of her yoretime cratered scrobiculations, in apogee of quiet ellipse. Yet shall I see my love in the rising dawn, though thou art no longer here ‘neath the same ‘morn as I.
Like the empty sward which a cloudberry may leave behind, so once again shall its abhorrence by nature make way for an occupation by even greater and more glorious beauty. I have fathomed a resting place for these eyne at last; your heart and smile assert their throne; such apprized cathedra shall never usurp their bearer, who will cherish thee…. always.
Thy embrace is my tutor, regaling more of love than any other lesson. Your childish heart is like a goddess to my life, moulded by the God of all gods. I shall write of thee and what fortune your fairness possesses, for whensoever death reaches forth from charcoaled shadows of blackest onyx in which he plays, to rob its vision in this world, yet shall remain a sight which triumphs o’er him with permanency that must reign beyond his brief tenure.
As nature shows us mysterious rhapsodies of fleeting physical beauty, yet does its fragile tenderness speak of eternal aeons. Summer is forever and winter is but her scar. Let your virtue be my only vice; let me break the chains and smash the manacle of thy Cimmerian thoughts, for you make devotion overrule all reason; but do not try to civilize this passion; would you be as quick to straightjacket a Bengal tiger with Tuxedo?
I see nature as God’s poems to us, waiting to be discovered; yes; e’en minutiae of the least creature boasts ‘ God was here ‘.
Aye, the barren page which awaits the poet every day before they rub a sleepy squint might one day threaten with its blankness; after all, perpetuity shall still be there whether witnessed or not. Is the triumphant oak made more beautiful still, by having been observed with the eye that hath seen its henna pillar? Does one alter its substance for thee by what they see? If one observed a scarlet woman and deduced only the chaste virgin she once was, would that change her? Could her professional smile of velvet katana hope to blot out the frown from the child lost within? Like the tree; is it not just bark and leaf? Chlorophyll and pulp? No. It is a lofty sculpture of the highest order; a masterpiece of wind and rain, life and death, wielded by the brush strokes of His hand, overlaying its yesterday with the plinth of today; an abstract of the absolute; everlasting symbol of life itself, simultaneously grasping the earth and reaching for the sky with root and bough respectively, proudly standing tall upon the imperishable canvas of eternity.
My darling; to me, you are the oil which feeds the stars above; I never saw them until I saw them with you. Now, through them, I see only you. Is it foolishness or noble frailty this predilection for thee? Foul jealousy assailed thou with retributive anger, but shall pay heed to its bitter sermon no more. I see your blush of maiden rouge from afar which declares, in its acquaintance, you are all woman.
Would death ever adjourn, stoop to pluck an autumn crocus, respire its bouquet and expect to remain the same? Surely he would perish for warping his own nature. In the same way, do not ask thy swain to stop loving thee; what pleasure is afforded by cherishing mourning weeds?
So, as this day departs with its colourful, bulging file consigned to a drawer in history:
“ ‘Till seen by future’s greatest dean,
Remembrance lost in time’s unseen,
Yea, cry for me, I’ll bleed for you,
‘Tis then, we’ll know our love was true. “