Dear Sonnet II

~~Your rhythm is epic—divine in its texture. I’m enthralled,
Tiptoeing upon the symbols of an opus. I’m enchanted, filled
With the mystery of contradiction. A trumpet is blaring
Within my being. It’s the sickness of infatuation, streaming
Within the freshet of my psyche. I’m intoxicated with
Ambition. Every sentence is a metrical feast. Thus, the ghost
Is chiseling portraits upon the concaves of my soul. And my
Emotions are overcast with color—so bright, and so brilliant.
Burnish me, my love; polish my prose, unto the heartache of
Joy; stitch your emblem upon the fleece of my soul. I’m open
To the magic of mystic passions, kneeling upon the portico of
Your temple. My pious, melancholic rapture, baptize me in
Your glory; awaken my sensibilities; infuse me with your
Cadence; for poetry is my coquette, my sublime misery.