I Love You
Shades of rufous and crimson oared between the eyes and the mind,
Vestured the feelings that rip the heart as a nagging memory
Overshadowing the pilgrim’s intentions, desires, and dreams.
The petite wench, this strumpet, harlot may I say, that flies-in through the window
In the shape of an untamed spirit displaying shoals of souls,
All undergone sweeping redemptions and purifications,
Presenting me a handful of utter fluff bound to burst,
And then, it tortures by retelling a maudlin tale of the piercing tears of a past,
Darkening this ghost that has been feeling an untimely thirst
Who threw ducats of affection and loyalty hoping to outlast.
Oh, no! An herbalist could not help to mend
What thorns of a rose do solemnly tend
They pierce and deflate elan
They pluck forth the joy
And then wait to redeploy
Buckets of tears and crates of apostolic lust, instantly,
Mustering the strength, recalling the sorrow, mediating every thought,
Oh, Amore! Oh, mystique!
Impossible is the token that rolls down the chin,
Yet it happens, as it is
Crystal clear and crisp, celestial and unwithered,
Always pure and authentic like the day
When mothers for the first time say to their babies – I love you!
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