I gaze upon the Madame
so long as admiration permits,
hoping by a small chance,
she may take note of my heart-like hands
and steady the beating of my banal brush.
This mystery, who mutes my madness
and tames the tenebrific chuckles of a feverish mind.
Imagine how richly I could paint the heavens,
if one such as her was my wind?
She, who of all women born
understands me most and yet, least of all-
a candle in my coffin
and the pull of a muffled bell.
I love the Madame as intended
which is to say,
she is too heavenly for me to wish earth upon her.
She is time outside of time,
and the kiss of an angel who smiled.
Who am I to defile this gift that was meant for the world and not me?