marți, 10 august 2010

Ink of my quill

Softly, she asked, “How much do you love me?”
Can one tell and quantify the air we breathe?
Can one count up the sand one speck at a time?
Can one measure the beat of my heart that seethe?

She was so full of queries and she questioned again,
Of how do I compose an astounding idyllic verse.
Whispering lightheartedly if she enthuses me too,
For her, I’d navigate the path over again I traversed.

Her name is an unwritten mantra inhabiting my heart;
Her voice reverberates and echoes in my recollection;
Jarred together clashed a massive light of reflection.

We declared vows as we breathe our passion each night;
Surrendered our souls to each other never letting go,
Mere thought of her away dreadfully tortures my mind,
Love has made me selfish for my honor to you I bestow.

In all my existence I believed she is the myth I prayed for;
The ink of my quill on a blank parchment that waits,
The writings and blessings of my plume gently scrawls,
A legend amazed me of her gift from one of the greats.

- by Cold

0 comentarii: