Beneath the boughs of the brandished beauty of resplendent redwoods,
Radiance of retrospective rays rip through to the rippling of a brook bristling with wisdom and wonder in its bubbles.
Wild symmetry in selected spots of seeds sown centuries ago; this circle is sacred.
My muse, fair and pale, hair dark and eyes of leafs, in the center sings in the silence of my soul.
“Oh, my lover, my joy untold! Welcome home! What story for me shall you unfold? The pages are bare! Show me your strokes, fine and with flare! I will embrace your art with all of my heart!”
Her last note lingers in the shade and my hand moves with purpose made. So smitten, I find that her story has already been written.
There’s a thousand words to describe beauty.
Yet, I have none to appease my desire of expression in the exaltation concerning your countenance.
The phrases and prose of my poetry pose as a place holder for my perception of your perfection.
The rhythm and rhymes of my writing can not invoke the truth of your elegance in existence.
Oh, how my soul sings songs unsung of your grace in gliding footsteps; I come undone.
Thousands and thousands of choices of diction, yet none characterize definite definition of your charismatic condition.
Grasping at the ghost of genuine gorgeousness, I gaze into the void; vagrant in verification of your vitality
Oh, my soul for a solution! A new word, a new meaning, acceptable to your attractiveness.
So, I shall slay the suffering of my soul and simply say one word to honor your humility.
Trueaty; beauty in truth and truly beautiful. For that is what you are.