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
marți, 10 august 2010
Ink of my quill
Publicat de Cold la marți, august 10, 2010
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