Though man with plenty whom proclaim your love
Is love of his, be wary may become
Of heart, in lesser love and shade of dove,
Compared your potency; mere scratch the sum:
Of radiance, with skill born out the womb;
No quarter moon reflects that mirror just,
Nor sun that wakes in only season's bloom,
In lovelier of loves, year round's your must!
Deservingly, let love let you be you;
And shadow sweet abundance bathed a-bright,
Like winds of summer brush and beauty blew:
To compliment is love more than by sight.
Yet if with one whom loves yours less than whole
Is from your love you give, from you have stole.
Then may you ask where find this love I write;
This poet dreams and dreams so through his make
That ink does spray tho' well, is mere a sight:
The love he raves is poet's stead and sake.
It's not of my deception you're deceived;
Your love has met with foe whom sways belief
In faith, devolved where faith is ill recieved;
Illiterate to love of ink's relief.
Yet still I pen for eyes in deep your realm;
Well versed in alpha letters of the heart,
That I revive this truth into your helm:
How beauty dwells within all-loving art!
And you possess love's many forms we hold
So dear and oh majestic to behold!
Not from sweet fantasy becomes my words:
They flow from love, they flow in love to page;
By palpitating beat each two of thirds,
The third I do divulge my lover's stage:
How unaware this rose, of ardent truth
That becons my lips but witholds my tongue,
Renounces age and blooms a brighter youth
That flutters on my face a bird unsung.
At night returns into my budding chest
To pass the moments by, like wind and time,
No! Poetry in three unveils my zest!
And couplet spill my secret love in rhyme:
My chasm where breath of love does form and brew
Is muse of mine and all of mine! Is you.