I'd paint you in dreamscapes—
visions of rolling hills
and fields of autumn leaves,
your form draped in grass
and sunset dapple—
porcelain, delicate beauty,
a work of art, the way I see you

Those delicate eyes
catch the light, glinting
'cross this fickle sword,
my evasive desire

there is no greater love
than one that transpires despite adversity—
one that stands tall and sturdy as the oak,
unmoved by any wind that dares to face it

Why, you must be a man made of marble—
What else could have sculpted a face so beautiful
And a form so lithe, yet untouchable?

I walk a ghost among the mourners,
plucking stitch
after stitch
into my own burial shroud

—with a rose
tucked into the sleeve

as though one day,
a dedicated love might find itself here

the veil of glamour and desire
that shrouds a heart, beaten so black
and blue, that deep down, revolts the
idea of ever being
loved, adored, or anything but
the maiming devil it knows well.