Is it one time when have I not seen things any better in my view. Must it chisel my heart out for was remembrance so intact in my veins for you;
Is it one hour, one such hour, when seemed nothing any more beautiful than how lucent the moon oft is - oh you know that, don't you?;
Was it an inception of such a dusk... alas! It was! Oh it was, it was!
Why, amidst the imminent grey of the stratus, the pallor of the nimbus still had its visage above my head and did I spectate.
I did spectate with eyes not wide open, but drowsy yet awake, with my arms warm but hands so cold to touch, just one pinch on my nape and no ache inside my body.
Holy Lord! 'Twas a sensation - sparkling but, ecstatic.
'Twas a feeling - palpable, but recognisable.
Oh! Was it a taste moreish, but not on my plate.
Where did it go when had my eyes transfixed? Or did I lose my sight to the china of the palette on which was etched two grubby and inky thumbs of a painter who must have sketched the silhouette of his beloved then? Was the latter a painting there, a...