They danced the bow,
an ole' burning skiff;
never taking his hands from her helm.
Did he even blink?
Blinded by the heat of her omnipotence.
He tried to discern her face proximately;
the impermeable remnants of
the flame impaired his vision .
Frère Charles couldn’t distill an elixir strong enough
to manipulate his compass’s rationale.
The ripest grapes, the deepest roots,
her herbaceous lips; his soulless old boots
laced with diffidence.
A despondent moon, a tear,
the asymmetry in her shadow.
She, whom he blindly confided in,
is painting a landscape of a fairytale.
The lily’s blossom eternally,
the dirt taste like chocolate,  
her oceans motions
propagate love.  
When?
He’ll never know.
His imagination undulates in wildflowers,
while she swims inauspiciously
in stormy seas.
Inevitably, a slave to the wave,
he thank her forest for the oak he step.
The old oak is opinionated,
and charred.  
Heedless it seem,
full mast against the wind;
somewhere their currents will convene.
A confluence relentless and unyielding;
even Moses ponder.