But in her web she still delights To weave the mirror's magic sights, For often thro' the silent nights A funeral, with plumes and lights And music, went to Camelot: Or when the moon was overhead, Came two young lovers lately wed; "I am half-sick of shadows," said The Lady of Shalott. Tennyson
An energetic countenance mirrors my soul’s symbols --
intricate lines surround consecrated green eyes.
I have known, and now understand composed
pathways to our past lives, and presently,
you live inside of my veins, and I in yours.
One single touch allows tears to fall from your eyes;
history’s salt weeps to release majestic holy water.
Your eyes, multifarious pools, round earth,
falling stars from a constellation to perfect hands.
Your eye’s daring sculptures, roots grounded in scriptures,
your face the home of Aphrodite, the body of Botticelli,
time is breathing quintessentially through life’s oddities.
Dancing fingers surrender to captured tears as
the vibrato of life’s cello throbs a voice of adoration.
Tears found deep within the sound of
your throat escape and journey to your heart,
following the beating pressured depths
infused in your soul, finally portraying the vigor in you.
Our soul’s combination radiates from the aura of your eyes;
you asked, I confirmed;
the calm of your cheek, the water of all oceans
mixing into the whole of awe, it does exist.