Refraction.

Clovette XXXIII

My preference for darkness
Colours my words;
How I describe my beloved.
For I compare her smile
To the crescent moon,
And always somebody ponders
Why I did not choose
The midday sun, in all its splendour,
All its brightness.
This brooding demeanour
Paints her joy a certain way:
How distant I seem,
Speaking always of blood, and lust,
Saying that her eyes gleam like jasper,
Not honey or mead.
Perhaps her smile has the brightness of the sun,
And her eyes are sweet, a soft golden brown...
Perhaps it would be true, and yet
Anybody could speak in such clichés.
My flair for the dramatic, my desire
To reflect beauty
In the darkness, the strange, the macabre...
She adores it, the romantic,
And I am eager to please.
I love her, and thus I write of dread
And death, of pain and sex -
I write of the beauty that not anybody
Can understand or see:
Nothing could truly do justice
To all that she is, all that she's been;
No artist nor artwork, no sculpture,
No poet, no award nor accolade...
My darkness, my love:
She is my love, and she savours everything
That I put to paper - each grim metaphor,
Every candid remark,
The unrestrained and irresistible;
The atypical and bizarre.
We know what it is
That makes us who we are, who we were:
There are a thousand women
Whose smile I could compare to the midday sun,
And a million pairs of eyes
Coloured like honey, almost tangibly sweet...
There is but one lady I know,
With absolute certainty,
Who adores to be described as what I perceive.
She loves to be the very woman
That these nocturnal eyes wish to see;
To filter what she is, what I treasure,
Through a conventional lens...
I may as well have never found her;
I may as well have insulted my beloved
Directly to her comely face.