“How am I to love you” I asked.
She replied

“Remove your veils before you make Love to me.
Do not shower me in empty compliments
that reek the seeking of my approval.
I need no words to remind me of my beauty.
Beauty is but one of my infinite names,
Grace is but one of my infinite forms.
Approach my temple only when you have recognized me as yourself. Til then be gone!
I do not seek a boy to raise or a man to groom,
only a King that has surrendered his ego to the
great Mother. The magic I contain Is sacred
I know this! The rivers of Eden pass through
my temple often, and many approach looking
to quench their thirst for eternity. Be present with
my body for it is the blueprint to heaven,
within this womb contains many rooms with each leading to paradise. If there is not care and reverence in your touch turn back. Approach no further.  When you have adorned yourself in your own love. Understood the child quietly resting within you. When the light of sincerity radiates from your lips.
Approach me, call to me from your inner silence
and I will meet you in the field of love where our hearts are free and roses sing to the hymns of angels”

There in the time, were you. Burning like light and moving like darkness. For being complete is nothing less than nothingness.

Maybe the hair strands are meant to cage the breeze. It is after all not an innocent brush of a passer-by. But a gaze, burning through every book employed to cover art, and every scent used as a decoy. A drizzle of steam on a melting face. An enactment of a blatantly romanticized pull, tugging at every vein to stand out in utter disbelief, what on earth befell the first hand that touched another?

There is a breeze stuck in your hair.
"How?"
Just like a bird begging to be free, although aware that the wilderness will be its death.

Maybe cinders are what birthed most of us. And instead of being cherished, we were set ablaze. And just like a volcano, we forgot how to erupt, we found peace in drifting arms. Although somewhat boiling, we were frozen to fever.

Maybe we aren't showers and sunlight but floods and hurricanes.

I've been searching for a window to a day, when words will have faces. Smudged, smiling and shy. All I found was a peephole to the midnight, when faces won't have words.
We can but touch glass to reminisce the hand held on the bridge behind a poster promising a longer summer

My words need meaning, they said. A profound lack of lustre is ******* the verses dry. The absence of a will to not frame riddles, is murdering every blot of ink in red. A noose hangs low from the title, and reaches the name by the time the sentences end. Every word comes as a punch of flesh on stone, unnecessary. A lucky draw of words thrown about for a prize less lottery.

What is more beautiful than an autumn of mess?
More meaningful than a heartache of happiness,
a nosebleed of ecstasy, a pint of pain with gin and love?
More laborious than saying everything and nothing?

Time is a fretboard.
"How?"
When we kissed, couldn't you hear the first note of the concerto?

In poetry there is always a great deal of eluding undertones and connotations, though defying, a reader must seize and tackle. Illustrious examples of worlds of secret meanings more than often can be found in witty poems. Acting as a narration and deriving a situational behind the poetry one is left begging for a truth behind themes of adversity, transcendence, or even polytheism. Poems are plush while painting and considering original statements. what at first may be implied or a life's meaning suggestion often can strike a reader as being more than the narrator can handle or wrathful or even too loud of a reference. Ironically it is the intense descriptions that often call forward a sense of care free being poetries can bring. To suggest impudence or be clubbed by wise parsimonious verse is not an abashment but the passing of judgment and behavioral analysis in creative structure.
There are lies planted by poems and yet often a reader can find how the tone affects, in fact, the opposite take away. Strong statements aren't necessarily meant for ill bearing, but to quote an effect outside ones own admittance, creating observations and perhaps a triumphant fuse. Entailed explanations ask the reader to bend to match the pomp or seriousness or divisive stooper. Lessons are learned, words cast and final arguments stands with a  simple reference.
Themes about life during this day and age or relationships with others can bring renewed interest and break barriers ascending from the norms to a sense of meaning. Such writing can plead and catch thoughts of personal prudence or implications of great strain leaving not just a silver streak but a moment cast; the reader is in an aura of gold.
Whether  hidden meanings or a stolid imagery, each dignity of a stanza cast with thought, no compromise can be expected to grind third levels of clarity, saturation through nuances, rhymes and ambivalence. The cloth over reality now can be an  acting curtain raised and the stage for prophetic acumen awaits the stylized performance of words cast to the live event of poetry!