The rose I can't have

My desire for you is like a cryptic veil,

which blossoms when I see your smile- bright as the blessing of Helios's vivid haze.

I am entwined with a twofold fracas.

One, which I am humiliated, in addition, disgusted about
is that my avid heart and reticence can never meet mutually.

How do I look into the eye of a seraph and expect fluid communication?

Concealed words will stay trapped within the tendrils of my tongue.

So I am forced to illustrate you on parchment,

because my pen is not timid of such splendor.

Michelangelo, with the patience of a bear,

hunted the emerald in the forest of his art,

the blood's spontaneous blossom of jade,

rifling a world of light to match your likeness.

Your flaxen hair bears a resemblance of the golden ivy,

that once festooned the barricade of ancient Babylon.

Lighting bolts of cyan opulence sing in the iris of your marble.

The lustrous lipstick on your lips are transparent with maroon Madeira.

Beholding porcelain virtue fragile like the ivory bronco of Italian virginity.

The rapturous perfume of yours exemplifies the smell of heaven's air,

carrying my long and rueful heart deeper to the palisade of desire.

Your complexion is the result of Aphrodite's kiss of magnolia skin.

Being near your presence gives life to me as if honey's sugar was an elixir.

The chisel of time cannot carve wrinkles into you,
for you will stay young in my poem.

Having described you,

I must tell of the other fray I am disputing with elided mine.

I have no supremacy within me to change the flight path of cupid's arrow.

I serve my nights lying awake with a requiem of false hope knowing that,

the halcyon days are already accustomed to cultivating your brilliant petals.

You already have a danseur to frolic with under the iridescent shower of comets.

I have nothing but to call you,

the rose I can't and will never have.