They brought me a quilled, yellow dahlia,
Opulent, flaunting.
Round gold
Flung out of a pale green stalk.
Round, ripe gold
Of maturity,
Meticulously frilled and flaming,
A fire-ball of proclamation:
Fecundity decked in staring yellow
For all the world to see.
They brought a quilled, yellow dahlia,
To me who am barren
Shall I send it to you,
You who have taken with you
All I once possessed?

Penned on watermarked cotton paper
Cursive letters script the words
of a surrendering rhythmic rhyme.
The ardent sonata was written
by the light of a Blue Moon’s shine.

The blood red ink bled through
the white wrinkled cotton pages;
musical notes dried by the warmth
of glowing Moon Beams radiance
in the subtle pollination breeze...

The maestro Coyote’s howl cried out!

Instinctively rousing the stillness of the night;
       a feral essence echoed
       through the eerie silence
       of the distant horizon,
bringing helpless lovers to their knees.

The words to the Cabernet Sauvignon
       stained midnight  lullaby,
       were emotions quilled,
       blending an aura accenting
       organic warmth of tones...

       The native maple trees'
flowering canopies of Spring
released a dusty yellow pollen
onto the watermarked cotton sheets.

In a moment of rapturous intimacy,
       an elixir of intoxicating bliss
illumined the achingly euphoric moments.
A natural untamed wildness was exhaled;
       savored ecstasy released
       into a passionate song of love …

That poignant melody forever lingers,
       like hieroglyphics on the walls
of some long lost abandoned cave.

Engraved, etched, brushed and stroked
       onto the brattice canvas
       of a musical Minstrel’s
            melodic montage ...

       Watch the artiste’s fingers
       prancing graceful ballet
       Worn down catgut strings

                                *moan
          
     ­                  weep

              purr**

       crying out lustfully.
     as if it were
    enraptured lovers'
  breathless sighs

  the rhythm’s cadence
whispers a masterpiece
       in an infinite
       harmonious time...

       The tempo’s lines
                Phrasing…

                 ...hush...!

             ♪♫♪ ~ ♫  ♪♪

        Listen to the pictures flow...
Listen to the weeping guitar strings
      of the passionate troubadour
stroking the metaphorical canvas scene.

       The ebb and flow
       of the musical rhythm's throb
arouse the Blue Moon’s hypnotic  allure,
    throwing incandescent shadows
    that dance around Moonbeams.

Joyfully twirling, blissfully embracing
in the blossoming Forget-me-not fields;
            Bluebonnet Lupine
               swirl and tango
       with the moonlit breeze.

       Lilacs fragrant aroma drifts
with spring’s churning romantic haze;
rekindling this fleeting memories recital.
The Minstrel and the Minstrel’s song
         now yearn to be set free ~

      Timbre without reverberation …
The twilight serenade was never penned
  to be hidden from the Nightingale

A romantic moment’s sorrowful lament
to be abandoned like a broken dream;
   fading unnoticed into forevermore ―
      Unsung,  unsaid, unreleased,
                     unrequited
                through eternity…

              The maestro Coyote
       is a wilderness troubadour
       illumined under the gloaming
               full moon’s spell.

                Howling soulfully...
               wailing impulsively ~
              ... crying hopefully
             pleading mournfully
                     lamenting
the Minstrel’s breathless cadenza ...

A bitter sweet musical embryo of love
                 found and lost
                       below
           the full Blue Moon’s
               glistening light…



©  H.  Rivers ... 2012, 2013
           all rights reserved

Who was the person in  Colonel Muammar Gaddafi
Was he a deadly Libyan tyrant as the west put
and dictator as the Western media and press
oftenly portrayed him  , here and there
as power voracios bent on assuming the leadership
of the Arab world and super sahara socialite
in the stamapede  of Gamal Abdul Nasser?
That Gaddafi was a driven and desperate man,
what a cruxificative tribe  of  question,

he gloriusly deposed King Idris
from the then rotting  Libyan throne,
President Habib Bourguiba of Tunisia
omenously  warned him that he had to stretch
  miles and whatever to go before he could claim,
to be un fettered  successor to Nasser's sceptre,


Gaddafi was a wildly and spotlessly  popular
among the Libyan masses,the earth's wretched,  
and even those in the rest of the revolutionary  world,
till the eyesore of his brutal ******,
  the tragics and haunting episodes,
of his life points clearly to the   truth of  truth:
  Gaddafi was a reasonless  hunted man
they way bin Laden was labbelled to be hunted,
for so he was a hunted man.

Gaddafi never had the time or the leisure
to do anything but run, but run and run
as an escape to hell, a clear testament
in his classical poetic, quilled properly
behind the dunes of the sahara desert,
His parting shots were true essence
of his compassion and generosity  to humanity,
a humongous  gift of a soccer stadium to Pakistan,
a plan to gift thousands of computers and laptops
to schoolchildren in  idyllic poor African countries,
and dollops of oil aid to poor Arab countries.

were these not totally dispassionate acts
For the Colonel was trying to build a support ,
and network throughout the  revolutionary world
because he was actively tracked and pursued
by the English and French dogs of ******,
tacitly supported by the United States.

The Western powers were committed to teeth,
to removing Gaddafi from his genuine power
lest he prove troublesome to currents of avarice
in furthering their interests in the oil imperialism,
for his daring rhetoric and outlandish capers
were sharp pedagogies to the oppressed.

western powers moaned and yelled doggishily,
for cheap Libyan oil well and item markets,
for  construction and drilling projects,
English and French origin companies
as well as American multinationals,
moaned daily  like female hyenas
when they  stood to lose  monetary gain,
if  Gaddafi remained entrenched in holy life
and  in power as the arbiter of Libya's destiny.

but that indeed was the holy  mandate
he had from the Libyan masses of peasants
even though it was imperially  questioned
by those of his cowardly enemies
moving in tandem  with cosmetics
of capitalism and burgeosie  development.

Gaddafi ****** the French presence in Chad,
as he did roundly criticize the United States
over its foreign policy of Bullish syndrome,
as he gloriously  shielded  the two Libyans
who were  accused without forgiveness
of plotting  and carrying out vietnam like bombing
of an American passenger jet over Lockerbie
in Scotland that led to Kissinger like  killings,
of hundreds of innocent civilians like in Vietnam.

History is yet to absolve Gaddaffi,
to glorify the dreamer with poetry in his eyes
who composed escape to hell in a desertly week,
exculpating him off false accussations,
of committing a crime of such magnitude,
good consicence must question the role of Jews.

It was only the status and stature
of Nelson Mandela as  a fellow comrade,
that managed to implore  the Colonel
to hand over the two accused Libyans
to the International Court of Justice
to face trial or even forgiveness,
The whole sordid drama of the Lockerbie bombing
is an enigma wrapped in mystery, jewish tricks center stage,
Sooner or later, posterity will  absolve out
with the truth and  save Gaddafi's name
and honor as leader of  the voiceless.

President Ronald Reagan did not even wait a little
before he launched those deadly missile strikes
against Libya,  against Gaddafi's private quarters,
to **** Gaddaffi's beggotten  daughter.

Was this not a base and cowardly
act unworthy of America and its great traditions,
Gaddafi, like Saddam, was a victim of labbelling
by  Western media who had painted his character
with satanic evil and malice , as if evil is alien to them,
even when there was no genuine evidence
to justify such a heinous depiction
  Gaddafi was seen to act irrationally,
was supposed to have mental delusions
why not  being mentally unstable!

Gaddafi's antics inspired acts of conscience
and a genuine and fitting response to a life
lived under mortal fear and terror  of terror
the fear of being tracked and hunted down
by Western agents who were out to eliminate him
with full backing from their governments.

Gaddafi, like Saddam  was not a criminal
although all sorts of demonic tendencies
were attributed to both leaders by the Western press,
All sorts of media scoops were ceaslessly  hatched
and all kinds of media blitzes  were  mercilesly launched
to create Muslim helots who overthrew Gaddafi,
and pursued him in armored cars and trucks
to his hometown Sirte deep in the Libyan Desert,
That he was killed with such horrible cruelty
with bayonets and gunshots,
pumped into his royal  head
such  is evidence that his assailants,
were  not  true Muslims whatsoever !

These enemies were petty paid murderers
and butchers who after the dastardly act,
proudly displayed Gaddafi's body
in a meat shop kept open for public viewing,
By committing these very desecrations
Gaddafi's foes had unwittingly revealed
their true un-Islamic and butcherous natures .

And what were Gaddafi's last pearlish words
to his assailants when he lay writhing in pain of death
on the ground unable to move because of the mayhems
of his injuries and wounds: WHAT DID I DO TO YOU?
Gaddafi had died like a Muslim Christ
on the American  cross with no words of abuse
or blame for his enemies, as they knew not
whatever the folly the were executing.

History will have to wait for generations
before another soldier and such a  leader
of Qaddafi's ilk and human  mettle surfaces
again  in the poor man's  world
to bravely  taunt the West
for its imperial perfidy and cowardice.

once upon a time
standing high with you
i was taken to a cliff
and was pushed down
by you with the help of your band..
nothing left to hold on
but an extending hand
midway, i could hold
only to get pushed further down...
crushed to pieces when hit the hard ground
found myself alive
destined to survive
slim chances to revive...
the pain spilled
i quilled
and rebuild
myself on the heap of my write...
now i am standing high
stronger
safer and better
at my own....
now you are being thrown
hanging at the same cliff
by the same people
who helped you once to push me
should i offer my hand
or quietly bestand
or join the band?

This day winding down now
At God speeded summer's end
In the torrent salmon sun,
In my seashaken house
On a breakneck of rocks
Tangled with chirrup and fruit,
Froth, flute, fin, and quill
At a wood's dancing hoof,
By scummed, starfish sands
With their fishwife cross
Gulls, pipers, cockles, and snails,
Out there, crow black, men
Tackled with clouds, who kneel
To the sunset nets,
Geese nearly in heaven, boys
Stabbing, and herons, and shells
That speak seven seas,
Eternal waters away
From the cities of nine
Days' night whose towers will catch
In the religious wind
Like stalks of tall, dry straw,
At poor peace I sing
To you strangers (though song
Is a burning and crested act,
The fire of birds in
The world's turning wood,
For my swan, splay sounds),
Out of these seathumbed leaves
That will fly and fall
Like leaves of trees and as soon
Crumble and undie
Into the dogdayed night.
Seaward the salmon, ****** sun slips,
And the dumb swans drub blue
My dabbed bay's dusk, as I hack
This rumpus of shapes
For you to know
How I, a spining man,
Glory also this star, bird
Roared, sea born, man torn, blood blest.
Hark: I trumpet the place,
From fish to jumping hill! Look:
I build my bellowing ark
To the best of my love
As the flood begins,
Out of the fountainhead
Of fear, rage read, manalive,
Molten and mountainous to stream
Over the wound asleep
Sheep white hollow farms
To Wales in my arms.
Hoo, there, in castle keep,
You king singsong owls, who moonbeam
The flickering runs and dive
The ****** furred deer dead!
Huloo, on plumbed bryns,
O my ruffled ring dove
in the hooting, nearly dark
With Welsh and reverent rook,
Coo rooning the woods' praise,
who moons her blue notes from her nest
Down to the curlew herd!
**, hullaballoing clan
Agape, with woe
In your beaks, on the gabbing capes!
Heigh, on horseback hill, jack
Whisking hare! who
Hears, there, this fox light, my flood ship's
Clangour as I hew and smite
(A clash of anvils for my
Hubbub and fiddle, this tune
On atounged puffball)
But animals thick as theives
On God's rough tumbling grounds
(Hail to His beasthood!).
Beasts who sleep good and thin,
Hist, in hogback woods! The haystacked
Hollow farms ina throng
Of waters cluck and cling,
And barnroofs cockcrow war!
O kingdom of neighbors finned
Felled and quilled, flash to my patch
Work ark and the moonshine
Drinking Noah of the bay,
With pelt, and scale, and fleece:
Only the drowned deep bells
Of sheep and churches noise
Poor peace as the sun sets
And dark shoals every holy field.
We will ride out alone then,
Under the stars of Wales,
Cry, Multiudes of arks! Across
The water lidded lands,
Manned with their loves they'll move
Like wooden islands, hill to hill.
Huloo, my prowed dove with a flute!
Ahoy, old, sea-legged fox,
Tom *** and Dai mouse!
My ark sings in the sun
At God speeded summer's end
And the flood flowers now.

" It ought to be solemnized with Pomp and Parade, with Shews,
            Games, Sports, Guns, Bells, Bonfires and  
                Illuminations from one End of this Continent
                      to the other from this Time forward forever more.”
      John Adams – July 3, 1776.

Webster Groves - 2016

The Townhall fountain dances
cheerily in the morning sun.
The red-white-blue shirted crowd
rises as one for the colors.
Laughing children scramble for
tootsie rolls and sweet tarts
tossed by a strolling  clown.

         Philadelphia, July 3, 1776

        Carriages sped toward Philadelphia
        where resolute patriots
        would turn the pages of history
        and tell an unsuspecting world
        that a new nation had given birth to itself.

Sousa strains peal from the marching Statesmen,
Girl Scouts guide their well-groomed mounts -
hooves echoing through concrete caverns.
Vintage firetrucks and autos
sound their horns and sirens
as candidates work the crowd, pressing the flesh.

        Each crass insult from the British crown
        had tightened the noose on the colonial neck.
        The middle ground was soaked with patriot blood
        and revolution was the only course left.

Barbecue clouds drift over Pat and Lee’s farm
Horseshoes spin and clang and frisbees fly.
A ***-luck feast with beans and franks
interrupts the pop and glare of bottle rockets.

        One by one, each patriot quilled the parchment
        resolved to endure the costs of liberty -
        knowing to the marrow that defeat
        would spell certain ******* and death.

We reach the lakeshore at dusk -
unfolding chairs - spreading out blankets -
strains of Americana drift over the lake.
then a pyro-technic extravaganza
blazes across the summer sky.  

        Washingon’s tattered and bloodied men
        cornered Cornwallis at Yorktown.
        Then surrender - all British claims
        to American soil banished to the tomes of history.

The grand finale pummels the darkened sky
raising cheers and whistles from the crowd
Toddlers collapse in parental arms,
car doors slam, engines ignite
and head-lighted caravans, turn for home,
spiraling off in every compass degree.

“Happy birthday,” America and endless happy returns
"from this time forward forever more!”  

Robert Charles Howard

The sleeping creature in my chest,
The curled up cuddly fuzz-ball,
Is feline, but no tame house cat.
Is soft furred in rest, and porcupine quilled in anger.
Her sharp teeth are usually hidden
Behind adorable whiskers and damp pink nose.
Sometimes her claws worry affectionately
At my ribs for attention,
Just so I don't forget she's there.

Today she is mad, frenzied,
Her proud cat dignity has vanished, she almost dances.
She chases her tale like the simple fool she is not.
She opens her mouth, not to bare her teeth,
But to mewl a plea for a mysterious something.
She buts her head against my heart again and again,
Knocking it off rhythm,
Rubbing it warmer with her fur,
Batting it and chewing it like her new favourite toy,
While I sweat
And stammer
And breathe too fast
And beat too fast,
And all for what?

You gave me your hoodie.
She caught one fragile whiff
Of your vetiver tinted catnip scent.

' Tis day arrow depart'h Cupids bow
quilled feather aflame
Nay zephyr  t'foil path
Nay sigh , nay wrath

'Tis day Eros took shine
Le Fille aux Cheveux de Lin
For beauty she doth bring
Betrothed by emerald ring

'Tis day St.Valentine
knight of amore
did taste'th our wine
Our blessed intertwine

'Tis day penned poem f'you
T'say our love bears true
T'promise and ne'er ask why
My love is guaranteed til death I die.

thank you

Part 1.

What wantless seeds attest to willing soil,
Each rooted finger delving to earth's core
In counterweight, as newborn limbs recoil
Up from the grave, to rise, to lift, to soar;
To marry gold above with gold below
As petaled faces bask in fiery glow.

In each low nook, on each high rising hill,
By narrow streams wending like living trails
Down through deep harbored vales where winds lay still,
Where night and shadows meet in mingled veils,
All sacred spots that nature calls her own
Know bounty of pure beauty fully grown.

Heaven to some, to some Arcadia;
Her lands enriched not by cold ore struck gold,
But by a blessed cornucopia
That wise men seek, but few will yet behold:
Into this realm a weary hunter treads,
As silent as a widow in silk threads.

His hooded face as weathered as a storm,
Dark eyes, a crooked nose, a fearsome chin;
Worn leather garb clung to his sinewed form,
Drab long cloak loosely clasped by silvered pin;
Old sword and dagger hung from side to side,
Short bow and quiver tarry not his stride.

Part 2.

The vestige trace long lost to eyes unskilled
Takes umbrage at his oft' requited glance,
And twisting like a ****** darkly quilled
To gift the puzzled reader bare a chance,
Turns this and that but all to no avail:
The hunter ever watchful of the trail.

Through field and copse, down to a steep ravine,
Plumbing the darkly deepness of a cave
That writhes through earthly riches like a stream,
Rising to spring like buds from winters grave:
Emerging into light as one exhumed,
The hunter pushes on, the hunt resumed.

For mile to broken mile the land retreats
To greet the rouse and sleeping of the sun;
As day and night dance gaily round their seats,
Taking a turn to sit on either one;
By light of sun, or moon, or stars, the prey
Sets firmer tracks each passing of the day.

Until a dawn awakes to shrieks of mourning,
One golden speck cries foul at visions edge;
Espying of the hunter's cruel adorning
She flits away towards a mountain ridge:
The hunter leaps, pursuing at a pace,
His prey is found, his hunt becomes a chase!

Part 3.

Arcadia delights in summer faire,
Yet all departed seasons lie within;
Protected from the ravage of time's stare,
They wander here or there upon a whim;
And to her borders, winter is inclined,
So comes the chill as summer falls behind.

Soft fertile plains give way to rocky climbs,
And mountain shadows mock sun's feeble stare;
Ice clung to stone, to sting all clinging limbs,
The hunter's eyes blinded by frigid glare;
His prey nearby, she clambers up the *****,
Her racing heart surged by false glinted hope.

Arcadia bade mountains rise up steep,
To keep her borders free of dint or breach,
And rising heavenward, each snow-capped peak,
An endless climb beyond all skillful reach:
The hunter clambers swift to shrink the gap,
And in a breath she falls into his trap.

A foxhole late encumbered with deep snow
Becomes her prison hemmed by harsh cold rock,
The hunter stands above, inclines his bow,
With silken string depressed by feathered nock;
One pause to blink before she pays his toll:
He stalls, steps back, and stumbles from the hole.

Part 4.

"Cold winds chill numb the hands, freeze not the mind!
What trick of sight gives light to such deceit?
Dare I to look once more? Pray will I find
My prey's own claws or tender dainty feet?
Treacherous snow lies deep, my eyes misled!
A beast I sought, a maiden found instead!"

"Kind sir, I find myself at your command!
Pray lend me arms no smith nor fletcher made,
But as my own formed of the sculptors sand
To shape the flesh into the mould he bade:
Pray open up your heart, come set me free,
For I would spy which hunter bested me!"

"Afore I gift my fingers to your plight,
Would you attest to count them fore and aft?
And pledge no claws will scratch nor teeth will bite?
And offer up the scheming of your craft?
A beast I hunt, yet here I catch no beast,
Be swift of tongue, the swifter then released!"

"Upon the sky that houses sun and moon,
The trembling mountains tamed by winters shiver,
The hills, trees, shrubs, vales, Arcadia's bloom,
The living streams, flowers like natures mirror:
Upon all things of worth if word be aught,
I gift my word, my ill to you is naught!"

Part 5.

Her slender form, as light as sleight of white,
He lifts up to assuage her troubled snare;
And looking then upon her wondrous sight,
With darting eyes for fear the sirens glare;
He feels a hammer strike a pillowed blow:
His lifeless limbs collapse into the snow.

"Fear not for words I gift are duty bound,
And bind me as a branch unto a tree;
Would I were fool to feast upon my hound,
My bonded words so too would feast on me:
But listen now, this nymph has had her fun,
The chase is run, the quest is just begun!

Arcadia opens up her vaulted gate
To fallen souls with honor on their name;
Not that bestowed where mongers congregate,
By kings rewarding those who **** and maim;
But those revered for kindly word and deed
Are born again through Arcadia's seed.

Live free to roam in Arcadia's haven,
Fish, hunt, give chase, for sport and for the thrill;
But heed me well, my bonded words are graven,
Open no doors to death, nor test his skill:
Death hunts you like the beast you thought to best,
Though chase be long, be sure he will not rest.

Part 6.

*Arcadia has but one proposition,
Be glad of heart, her realm cannot be broken;
But of your hand she makes a supposition,
You wear it still, a lovers gifted token:
All bonded vows should break upon her border,
That yours did not has brought her some disorder!

Though day and night swing endless through the sky,
No time shall pass within this hallowed glade;
Where once you stood, forever shall you lie,
One breath between a life and bitter shade:
Arcadia can open up her door
And with a breath, release you evermore!

Return to life, return to love's embrace,
Return to sickness, death and poverty;
Go now and lose all knowledge of this place,
Be troubled not by wistful memory;
This path once trod can never be unstarted.
Be warned: no path returns here once departed!

Here then your quest continues with a choice,
Remain within Arcadia's golden land;
Or live a mortal life and then rejoice
To greet your death when taken by his hand:
One breath to choose, one solitary breath,
Immortal life or yet a mortal death."

Oh to live in a golden age
when a bard's quilled words
would feather a goose down bed
or get thyself royally laid.

the buzz is a violent truth serum
that enslaves you as its quilled pen

it requires certain demands of you  
things you cringe at upon waking

because suddenly

you've unraveled a beautiful scroll
and marked it with broken charcoal

and kissed it with a wine-stained mouth--
your stamp of drunken approval

to make sure that the one
who should never receive it

is exactly the one
who gets bit on the lips

by your alcoholic kiss
your inebriated, late night diss

Artemis is my godmother, but she might as well have made me herself.
not with anyone else; just her womb of stars and moonlight, and a love of open air and indigo sky.  chase the horizon until it becomes a little less distant, and suddenly you just are.  she taught me that.  she taught me a lot of things.

whisper to the wind and talk to the trees; they'll listen.  maybe, if you satisfy them, they might sigh back a response.  notch your bow of silver bark and quilled arrows with the breeze in their feathers, and teach the deaf what they told you.  she does it so often that it's instinct for her now.  (I'm still working on my marksmanship.)

she taught me to run with the wolves, too, but neither of us expected that I would settle into the pack so well.  I am cohesive; I obey the hunt.  I know how to loose the same long, lonely howl.  I know how to protect and guide and follow- mostly, anyway.  the trouble is, I stray in my heart.  I long for more than long nights and stray breaths between sisters.  

I long for someone who will hold me, and that is the one thing my godmother cannot teach me.  she does not know how to catch a man's heart with her glittering arrows, and she has sworn off the folly of trying.

I'm a little more foolish though.  

she holds me close in my despair, and we are so alike that sometimes it becomes impossible to tell the two of us apart.  but it always comes back, the stubborn truth:  I can never join the hunt.

because my father's song is guiding my wanderer's heart, and I was born to chase.  I just can't chase with Artemis.

I love too deeply to give love up.

tell me, what do they feel like?
satin on skin, silken and luxurious
gently brushed rose petals, their velvet caress soothing pain
maybe sandpaper, each syllable dripping with poison ivy, a deadly venom of voice or pen
stabbing you with ink quilled thoughts
chewing on stained letters, each a glass edged piece of
branded CAPITAL LETTERS on the page of your cranium
burning and scalding you as they spill off your tongue
quietly, shh, speak in soft shades of lavender
or bellow it to the crowds, in violent flames of vermillion
soothe or salt the wound of another with your pen
forgive or arm yourself with a battalion of frenetic artillery

or let silence frame your contentment

Ah! Sweet moments,
Those often tiny vignettes of time,
Captured landscapes,
Life quilled upon passing seasons.
Gifts and treasures collected
Tucked into memory's
Dusty corners...
Filling the Soul's bookshelf.

But sometimes
There comes a moment,
Unnoticed and slipping quietly,
Into its' own silence.
It will have no tomorrows
No memory to ease the emptiness
Of regret...or words
To paint upon our bare
and introverted canvass.

Which avenue travelled
Rests with the toss of the coin,
For the realm in which we dwell
Is determined, primarily,
By chance.

[email protected]
3rd March 2024

Le Fille aux Cheveux de Lin

'Tis day arrow depart'h Cupids bow
quilled feather aflame
Nay zephyr  t'foil path
Nay sigh , nay wrath

'Tis day Eros took shine
Le Fille aux Cheveux de Lin
For beauty she doth bring
Betrothed by emerald ring

'Tis day St.Valentine
knight of amore
did taste'th our wine
Our blessed intertwine

'Tis day penned poem f'you
T'say our love bears true
T'promise and ne'er ask why
My love is guaranteed til death I die.

thank you

a history, untold
a mystery to unfold
an eternal search
a perpetual urge
too ethereal to achieve
too surreal to believe
a desire, remaining unfulfilled
an epic, still being quilled
a moment stilled
in the veins, it instilled
O my beloved!
you're a dream too grand to be realised
a scheme, too ambitious to be materialised....