How many more sighs must pass ere my words be stitched into thy heart,
thy very being-a masterpiece painted by the Lords gentle breath.
Ebony pools of the deepest sea, doused in the purity of milk,
I drown in your gaze, turn thy sight from me
for you have overcome me,
deign to converse with me; thy voice is a song I yearn to hear.
With a longing that yearns with the entirety of my fondness,
for this matchless butterfly, fluttering through grace.
Her elegance...