Of eye and iris, combined,
I combed the earth, to then find those pair,
Dipped in honeydew and nectar alike,
Stark against pallid skin and reddened cheeks,
As thy making were by God’s artisans.
Your eyes, and the cries you emit,
By the graces of angels,
By the disgrace of my fallen empire,
By the dismay to my withered pride,
You are still the only love.
A beauty with bleakness to tress,
And red to lips,
A beauty with eyes that fall in the idleness of waking,
A beauty with no equal, unmatched by makers of newness,
For the eyes that I behold are a waiting game.
I look upon them with a face so stern,
I look, with the entrancement,
The enticement, the amiable nature of my mind,
To be pleasant in sight of a one,
The nurtured one, the rose in the garden.
You have never been the disappointment,
And I never faulted you for any failure.
A beauty with eyes that wait, as I wait,
For a death that would make our love finally resting.