She’s beautiful, like a spring forest,
I am unable to speak in her visage,
Fumbling for words, am I,
My own thoughts betray my stoic form.
Soft, like the snow brushed softly on my winter’s canvas,
She’s there, in my soul written through my hand,
I can taste and touch but I cannot feel,
For close though she is, the distance divides us still.
My heart bleeds upon these pages,
Profuse as am I, inconsolable in their desire,
The Magnificent Goddess I cannot embrace,
Yet cannot seem to let go of.