I dream of roses,
I swear it, I do.
And when I wake,
I'm reminded, it's true,
That never was a dream,
Sweeter than you.

I do not fear perfection,
It does not touch my soul.
Pretty things do not inspire,
They burn fast and soon turn cold.

I could write a thousand songs
For the blooming, auspicious rose.
But a thousand songs I'd waste,
And never would I grow.

A lovely **** is a flower,
An ugly flower a ****.
All the stories told and weaved,
And still I wonder what they mean.

I do not fear perfection,
I do not sing for queens.
I fear the silent beauty,
The humanity between

Starlight in her hair,
Sunshine upon her fingertips,
And syrup on her lips.
Perfection is cold, and yet she is warmer than every hearth on earth.
Sapphire eyes, electric soul.
She's neither sun, or moon, or stars.
She is all the sky above.

I want to crack your mind open,
And spill the contents of your thoughts upon my floor, and gaze upon your conscience for hours.
It is not a violent temptation, just a yearning that heats the crackling embers within me.
If I knew what it was that creased your brow, or piqued your attention, or masqueraded before you in a daydream, perhaps then I'd know you as you are, completely.
Perhaps if I knew your mind, my own would feel at peace knowing it is not alone.
It is not an angry temptation, but one full of sorrow, and envy of your mind, the very mind that is sole audience to your soul.
Oh, to know what you think when you smile to yourself, or crinkle your nose, or frown the second after you come down from the high of laughter.
I want to spill the fragments of your brain onto my desk, and sort through the make-up of you for hours on end.
To know at last what it is that wires the most remarkable, and most captivating, person I've ever met.