A whisper soft, a glance so bright,
"You're beautiful," a fleeting light.
Each girl delights in such a sound,
A fleeting praise, on hallowed ground.

But deeper still, a woman yearns,
Beyond the words, the praise that burns.
Not just the blush, the whispered grace,
But a true love, a steadfast space.

For beauty fades, the bloom will cease,
And fleeting words, like summer's breeze.
A love that's lived, a heart's embrace,
A truth that lingers, time and space.

She seeks not just a fleeting sight,
But a love that burns both day and night.
A bond that's strong, a soul's true art,
A love that's lived, within the heart.

The spoken word, though sweet and fine,
Cannot compare, to love entwined.
A truth that lingers, deep and true,
A love that's lived, for me and you.

Joy's a cunning, whispered charm,
A flicker bright, a vibrant arm.
Sadness, too, a subtle art,
A tapestry of aching heart.

The sea, it recedes, a whispered sigh,
Yet echoes linger, deep and nigh.
Present still, though gone from sight,
A phantom's grace, a moonlit night.

And in this gloom, a sunlit spark,
My spirit dances, though in dark.
Sadness's shadow, soft and deep,
Cannot steal the joy I keep.

The eyes, they slumber, still and meek,
No tears descend, no words they speak.
My sorrow's trace, a fading hue,
A whispered promise, me and you.

The heart, it beats, a steady drum,
Though whispers soft, the silence come.
A quiet strength, a whispered plea,
To find the light, eternally.

A crimson tide, a whispered plea,
A sacrifice, for all to see.
My heart's deep well, a fervent stream,
To you, my love, a sacred dream.

With trembling hand, I raise the cup,
A libation, pure and up.
My soul's own flesh, a holy form,
A love's devotion, to take its storm.

For in this act, a truth unfolds,
A courage born, where sorrow molds.
My every deed, a fervent prayer,
To prove my love, beyond compare.

The wine I pour, a symbol true,
Of all I've given, all I do.
My sacrifice, a whispered vow,
My deepest love, in every bough.

A testament, to fervent heart,
A love's embrace, a work of art.
My soul's own flame, burns ever bright,
To show my devotion, pure and light.

This holy form, a solemn grace,
A sacrifice, in time and space.
For you, my love, my guiding star,
My every breath, my soul afar.

Who first taught words to burn with love?
Who carved the longing of man
into the dream of a face?
And how shall man repay
with coins, with silence,
with songs too frail to touch your flame?

He entered the stable of kings,
thinking the nearness of the throne would crown him.
He wore the saddle of glory,
and tasted the grain of another’s destiny.

But the soul cannot be tricked by garments,
nor the heart by walls.
Essence breaks through every mask.

So when he opened his mouth,
the sound that leapt forth was not praise,
nor hymn, nor neigh of majesty
it was the cry of his own nature,
a bray echoing the secret:
“You are what you are.”

Oh Lord, the question hangs, a heavy stone,
How does a son of man dare speak such bone-deep tone?
To claim in earthly form, a sacred space,
To find within a body, God's own grace.

Is it defiance? Blasphemy unbound?
To elevate the human, hallowed ground?
To see the folds of skin as text unseen,
A holy writ upon a mortal queen?

He sees the shadows dance, a whispered lore,
And traces lines where secrets lie in store.
The curve of wrist, the hollow of the knee,
Become a landscape, wild and utterly free.

He feels the rhythm pulsing, strong and true,
The vital drumbeat that he kneels unto.
A living prayer, a silent, heartfelt plea,
Within the temple of her energy.

Each sigh escapes, a breath of sacred air,
A melody unheard, beyond compare.
Each touch, a spark, igniting from within,
A sacrament of love, absolving sin.

He's lost within the gaze, the gentle hand,
Adoring beauty he can understand.
No gilded altar, cold and far away,
But warmth and breath within the light of day.

The flesh, so mortal, fragile, and so frail,
Transforms to something that he cannot fail
To worship as a wonder, brightly shone,
A living altar, claimed as his alone.

But is it worship, or a selfish need?
A claiming of devotion, planting seed
Of earthly passion, twisting pure intent,
To serve a longing, heaven never sent?

Or could it be a glimpse, a sudden flash,
Of God's own beauty hidden in the flesh?
A recognition of the spark divine,
Reflecting back, in every curving line?

Perhaps the Lord, in wisdom vast and deep,
Allows such words, a promise He will keep,
To show that love, in purest form conceived,
Can find the sacred where it is believed.

So let the question linger in the air,
A challenge posed, a burden hard to bear.
But let the beauty, whispered and so low,
Of earthly love, its sacred meaning show.

For in the crooks and curves, the pulse, the sigh,
A son of man may glimpse eternity nigh,
And find, perhaps, a truth he can embrace,
God's light reflected in a human face.

The soul is heavy, a stone upon my chest,
I long to lay it down, to find a place of rest.

An old man drifts, with eyes like fading flame,
Seeking the shadows of dreams that bear no name.

He murmurs of bargains, made under moonlight,
Of stolen joys purchased with the soul’s own bright.
“This weight,” he says, “presses slow, presses low,
But it may vanish—if only you choose to go.”

He offers a peace, soft as a sigh,
Yet the price he asks cannot meet my eye.
Not gold, not gems that dazzle or blind,
But a treasure more secret, beyond time, unconfined.
A tale unspoken, a fire untold,
A spark eternal, that never grows old.