No brush stroke captures the lighting stroke,
Chords nor song express the strongest bonds,
And words stumble in an anguished heart.
When neurons and soul barely perceive,
When deep unto deep breathes and grieves,
A sage, or a child, lost amid the breakers,
No fathoming the depth of the churning sea,
All flaying and failing in desire to evoke,
Love.
She is the rising sun and she is the setting,
She is the first and last icon in my soul,
Yet all such blather is only so much noise,
Oh for a heart to howl honestly at the moon,
For pangs and pain that find no worthy runes,
Instead, a cub, with pitiful moanful whimpers,
Heart cries sealed in a cage of bone and flesh,
Born stumbling of a deep love ever begetting,
My troth.
In truth, but one tear in her emerald eyes,
Or a simple tremble upon her coral lips,
Then I, penitent before the throne of God,
Barefoot, and ready to walk upon the coals,
Passion's purgation extracts a weighty toll,
These fires overtake this stumbling jester,
Refining his ore, knighting him champion,
One man awakens to loving that bids him die,
For Her.
