Shall I talk about thy rose tinted cheeks, thy magnificently luscious lips
Thine meticulous eyes, ever peering through mortal veils
Better yet that that I talk about the inquisitively capricious nature of yours
Your fickle heart and your giddy soul
Or shall I dare mention the shadows lingering behind your demanding eyes
Words that overflow your chalice like poisoned honey wine
Perhaps I should talk of those demons of yours you so abhor
The melancholia that takes hold of you, when no man is so bold
The fear that souses the depth of your soul.
Your personal hell that you carry along
Or perhaps I should talk of things that are sweet, your dreams, your hopes,
Those indentations in your cheeks
Better yet that I say nothing at all.
For what are words compared to your splendor, behold