O dearest, the northern star in my sky that leads me home
Merciful consort who offers me safe passage and clemency when, perhaps,
I deserve none, for I am the fool of fools on my best of days. You never
Cease to amaze me with your grace, and how my soul yearns for its kindred
Spirit -- to whom it will write, sing, and bathe in heartfelt praise! When my eyes look upon you They refuse all others, for your splendor blinds them so.
O dearest, the surest hint of compassion in a world wrought with malevolence
Brought upon by greed, ego and insecurities... I wonder when you'll grow tired of my
Company, of my praise, and I dread at times the fantasy of taking you into my arms at the cost
Of a reality in which you will need to spread your wings, leaving me to my own
Devices (which are few and insufficient), left to wither as even the most enduring flower wilts
Come the final dawn of winter.
I, the fool of all fools, unyielding to caution's warning, must admit to having
A mighty lust for all that you offer. I've eyes that wish only to peer into your own,
First and final breaths that wish only to bookend words of love and admiration
In your name, and a heart that desires to beat only when you are near -- for
When you arrive I am born again like a Phoenix from the ashes, and when you are
Gone I am rendered inert, a defunct cell that has lost his purpose and been
Ordered to decay though, in its own mind, there is still much left to offer.
O dearest, I pray for warmer days and cooler nights, that while the sun smiles upon us
We can lay under cerulean skies, and when the moon glows we can rest by fire's side
With only each other, perhaps a bottle of wine. We could listen to music, or I could sing
To you, we could kiss tenderly or make love passionately, as if our first day together
Was our final. I couldn't promise you what I might one day have, but I would readily
Bequeath all I'd come to earn, from valueless to most precious.
O dearest, how I clamor for the partnership of our creative minds. How you so
Easily invoke the best in me, however deep it lurks -- not wanting, by normal means,
To be cohered nor disturbed, nor awoken from its slumber. It has never been as good to
Me as it is to you, and at times I must admit jealousy of your mastery over a gift I have
Since birth owned, never knowing how to conjure. It is true, you are my Muse, and I
Your plaintive servant, who awaits your word with a longing so strong as to be fervent.
I, the fool of fools, have probably made an error in writing this encomium that must,
Surely, cause you to look at me in terror. Alas, I would feel remiss were I to refuse
The urge -- this nearly insatiable need -- to tell you such things. You are my cynosure,
The inspiration whom speaks not just to my art, but to my soul and my heart, and with
These words I aim to win your favor, even if I find myself a friend in failure, for, as my
Epitaph some day shall read, "I would rather be remembered as the fool who cared too
Much, than as the fool who cared not at all".
O dearest, were I your fool of fools, to see that you are always loved, appreciated, and
Treated as an equal would be my most treasured victory.
