• O, how thou art
    like the air that be breathed
    through my soiled lungs,
    that without thee I wouldst succumb
    to the cold of death
    by self-infliction.

    But o,
    how thou art of endless beauty,
    I shall, with thy permit,
    speak thereof in manners unbeheld.

    Thou art of a look so pure,
    it doth transcend grand,
    to be as a seraph's face in bold.

    Thy voice,
    of a quality that ten-fold surpass
    the birdsong of infinite nightengale
    who give sound to God itself.

    Thy skin,
    so delicate
    that one may feeze if touching thou
    for fear of shattering that which lie undertouch.
    Yet thou hath a flesh so beauteous
    even saints would not be bereft of lust.

    Even thy scent,
    so eloquent
    that no heart could bear
    the consequence of absconding
    after inhaling thy sweet aroma.

    Forehere hath the four of five been splayed.
    Yet the one that remains
    be the most importunate,
    yet myself hath yet to have
    the taste of thy lips.

    And yet,
    as wish be present,
    thou doth glide away,
    gay yet saddening,
    thy innocent smile
    fraying the base of my sanity
    at thoughts of departure
    from thy ever-lasting aura.

    With this,
    my lids doth open
    as rose petals neath a sudden sun.
    Whilst my conscience returns,
    that which uttered,
    from my most disappointed frown,
    be:     "ARGH!!
    Woke up right before the best part...
    This ALWAYS happens..."