I shall return.
From my poetic death.
One day.
To light the stars.
And be enlightened.

Two different bodies, much parallel by space,
Yet they’re seen as a similar soul, much too wise;
Frankly, only one thing connects their far-off lines:
The cross in the form of a woman who inclines.

Meeting them is no pure coincidence, she lauds,
For a change of heart brought their lone planes with applause;
But the baffler still ponders about these young gents,
Why would Fate make me the origin of what bends?

Much amazement can they to charm our muse’s chasm,
Brought out of an obscure triangle to spasm
And make her plight more difficult to make choices
So as to bring a cut-off with life’s dull voices.

Oh, but who am I to decide for one fine gent
If but my dress be the maiden of honor’s bent?
Now, give me a plausible reason to choose you,
It might be your last of me and be it adieu.

Please, discern of who shall be your beloved half,
Just between black and white, never the grayish bluff.
Will it be the wise fighter or the wise equal?
They may blind you with mirror looks, so choose lethal.