The Rythmic Language of a Man’s Heart

Coursed, pricked feet swung across the threshold of brick and mortar; her voice lifts with the breeze and like a dagger, pierces my heart with a sincere good morning. To count the days that bring such delight would turn sane men, mad, and mad men humbled in their madness. True accounts of such love are recorded in the air, the trees, and even the flowers lean from the weight of loves passion. Accountable are our words; to account for our hearts purpose we must speak cautiously. The intricacies of the syllables that roll from her lips are pre-determined by yesters’ moon and written in her spirit. How I’ve spent many nights, watching; awaiting to catch such a sacred union of the spirit and the heavens. Only begins such as she are graced with imperial relations. I tremble in her presence as the radiance of her blessings are visible, for the inner glow of her joy dresser her in external beauty, and I; a man undone by love thank the Lord for thine eyes to see such splendor.

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