Recoiling from the mirrored death, I gasp;
since when did time then bring on wrinkled fears
where skin unmolded youth from out its grasp
and left behind this cast, reflecting years.

That sudden, darken dawning sight unveiled,
but wounds overt, are not as quick the eye
yet how I'd missed my failing, form detailed,
immortal dreams had schemed; to age defy.

Ah! Best my early days knew truly not
for I had lived as ever I'd be fair,
and if that time revealed this torrid rot
I would, then linger onward, tho' of wear.

I'll take this crinkled skin, for I were young!
And spent as tho' to age, knew not my tongue.

Despite a lonely glaze within my chest
that steady beat still drummed a pattern true
and had not missed; as lonesome would behest,
but pattered onward tho' it were anew.

Until the fairest gaze with hands sateen
caressed and conquered in, with dainty feel
that stroked, and wrought to change what peace had been
to tap behind my breast her fervent zeal.

At will, and touch she spurred a thumping pulse
as tho' my core were drums, and she'd out-play;
a trancing mood no man could then repulse
but let the beauty dance and waltz her way.

My gentled rapping churned, her grace outdone!
To thwart in that was mine, till then, she'd won.

If I could shrink an ailing body piece
then from my chest dilute the torrid pain
that billowed when your love had parted lease
and drowns me in; a churning, scalding strain.

Decrease the ***** till the burning yields
and donor none, such grief is best to waste,
dispose where to; from other cores it shields
let feast by creatures, used to bitter taste.

If left with none to love, repose to sleep
in dormant I, then have no blood to give
for hurt would have no muse to reach as deep
nor then again let lovelorn wounds relive.

O' take this beating ball of lover's tar!
To drain her out my pulse, and mold no scar.

I have presumed and wrote, that heaven's guard
would greet and welcome me, when age had won
but if that golden staff would wave me barred,
what fault had I, to just - my soul outdone?

Would my offense be matters scaled with love
for deep into the past's of May; love cried
when angels swept her past the clouds above,
and only Spring this year, had love retried.

Ah, could my newer flame have burned the seers;
for hearted vows, in death could still ordain,
if fallen whispers grieve in angel ears;
that promised - only she, in love would reign.

O' parted love, weep not, that heaven's bless!
Tho' love here changed, means not - our love is less.

How do I write of love, unlike before?
Have bards of old then dripped and dried all pens
that none a phrase nor sequence left to roar,
my hearted themes then blind to any lens.

Should I then rhyme and pray my wit appear
to scheme a love no sonnet, dare have done,
for those who seek to read what love is here
and touch an essence tho'; anew had won.

But if my page imprints a loving new
have I deprived a future poet's scheme
that he be lost, as I am now with rue,
that works, tho' felt, another may beseem.

But love, is love, no other word can meet,
and if that love his own, none can defeat.

A lover's garden is - a budding maze
that grows from sprouting seedlings 'neath the sleet
as mirth for spring outdone the frosty glaze,
and stems to touch unveil with flowered greet.

The blossom heads imbue the wealth within
to splay a redden zeal, or blue of truth
or white as pure, but darker shades can win
tho' hue can glow, it could then bring untruth.

For beds of flowers thorn and sharply *****,
to walk the floral beat; some planter's bleed,
the dripping stains, and petal leaves unpick
But if the bristly spines grew true, proceed.

A lover's world can grow an Eden's yard
tho' if from brittle make, then prune on guard.

If love were formed and rendered by a God
then dearest lover, blessed have you been
for he, or she, with wand had also ****
and touched upon your cast, a beauty's sheen.

Exquisite works that I so marvel oft
as other Gods, like that whom rules the sun;
had sought to bind such glow, with light aloft,
and nightly moons, into your eyes, have won.

Your love, and God thereof, have greater worth
as love has pierced within and won my mold
residing deep, into my source of mirth,
that if no love, let Gods alike withhold.

As love that truest, must be dreamed above,
there's only one such power; God of love.