The Touch of Love

It’s the quaintest of passions—this mystery—this love. Its
Rhetoric, the thunder of spirit. I’m alive, awake in my slumber.
She’s the ache of nature, a diamond nigh the soul. Thus,
Evermore I climb, aloft a dream. And my spirit, flung into the
Future, enlove with a vision. My every impulse, is the pulse
Of ecstasy. Wherefore I search the maze of intention, lost in
Innuendo. And the keel of love is my motivation. Whereby I
Dance upon the pegs of light, filled with magnificence. But
My love, a distant touch, the dazzle of my soul. Thus I drift,
Dizzy in my disposition, musing upon infinity. Wherefore an
August mist permeates my person, the touch of love. And I die,
The death of God, alive in my passion. Wherefore I live, as
Primal as Genesis, falling into piety. And my love, the eruption
Of faith, the carpet of my soul. Thus, I’m filled with glory.