Upon the Wings of Love

It’s more the action thereof than the words of love. But the nib
Is bleeding love. Wherewith is the portrait of anguish, for
Touch, a myth in the breeze. But I vow the color of fidelity,
Kneeling in the forest of shadows. There I tarry, gnawing
Upon wormwood, afraid of vibrant vibrations. And illusion,
A tender touchstone, the flight of passions. But immortal this
Flaring echo, resounding softly. It’s a fervent passion, the
Portico of dreams, sketching divinity. Thus I’m flummoxed, a
Soaring abyss, edging the plank of emptiness. Such that peace
Hovers the soul, where solace is found in misery. And the stars,
Silent companions, etching dreams. Where hope, a sacred force,
Deacon of the soul. But I wed the prudent heart, adrift to court
The clouds.  Wherefore this confliction, my ardent joy, flaming
Into the future. And I dare to forsake such prudence.