(I never can write poetry about emotions effectively it seems – it always seems so cloying and emo. But I like some of the images I thought up for this one, at any rate, and I can’t pass up the challenge to make myself do what I can’t do yet).
My love is like a red, red rose, indeed,
This thief of blood could have no other shade
You bloom in graceless gardens as you feed
Their grey forgotten now that you’re displayed
Perhaps Bach wrote down lesser melodies
To sometime quit my mind, in his respect
You, pearl of iridescent harmonies
Are what calls forth the imitating speck
My angel, what other being can, for me,
In sheer existing be so beautiful?
My Azrael, why is this sword for me?
Why bring this terror down upon my soul?
Oblivious to this, you turn and smile,
And we chat of mundane things a while
