In the eyefulness of the firmament,
the wooly chariots of the dreamy high,
do the words “drop-dead damsel” amplify.
In sacred writ I portray my delight:
Your beauty rhetoric as orature,
needs not the ink of musing to define.
Alas! my ink flows, through the riverine,
being possessed by the abstract sculptor.
The cherry moisture of her seamless skin,
Her legato rhythm, muse nightingales.
The opera of my fingers like bulls graze,
From the luring webs of her hidden skene.
…You lose the name mortal, chaste enchantress.
…You woo my wonder, l woo your essence.
By: Anthony Oluwatamilore Daniel