I have not told her of this, truly.
She knows not that I write such words
to glory in her magnificent manner;
to bask in her beauty, her banner I fly.
She is made to be unaware of words
that sing out of my heart, to paper,
and ever shall she never know,
for never shall I read these to her.
I share not of my written word.
I care not if my poems catch fire
and left are only ashes blown
about by winds that come and go.
She has no need to know of this,
for in my every waking moment,
surely she hears my songs of her;
she knows I Love her, and always shall.
And so, I rhapsodize her nightly,
regaling in her nightgown, she,
and I, this man she so adores,
make known our love with all our moments.
Let Love sing wholly, without pretenses.
No, she needs not read my scrawlings.
Really, she, who is my soul,
can ever know of my adulation;
her worth is minted within my eyes.
You are the flecks,
you are the aura
of my very being, Darling.
Minted, yes, indeed, anon,
and mightily ever after, my Love.