As Soon As the Moon Has Finished Her Dance: a Love Letter

My precious jewel, If I may begin with the moral of a wasteland of years that is my deplorable past, having relinquished priceless treasures for fear of opening the chest: Fulfilment is richly attained when one dares to live in the light of hope but only poorly imitated when He but cowardly exists in muted assurance. I have again awoken to this inescapable darkness, surrounded by the frigid ness of her. She continually mocks me with her cadaverous glow. Regret now roams the ghostly hall that once held my soul. As I sit here on this lonely, abandoned shore, an obsidian sea compassionately reaches out to caress my ageless feet; an amiable gesture indeed but it to is cold. Gazing across this vast charcoal stage, the dense fog of memory mercifully lifts, revealing when last I looked upon your heavenly face. Ahh, Yes! I can see you now; your brilliance beaming through lilac veils. I swear I can feel the heat of your embrace; smell the sweetness of delicate floral perfumes iminating from your warmth. If only you could have promised forever. Still, I sense her looming in the wings as the curtain comes crashing down. Must I be denied you even in reminiscence? She shimmers across the ever inky apron. My ivory Queen; her seductive dance has long since waxed stale to my senses. But she promised forever. Had I understood that no promise of tomorrow was a gift that made life most valuable, I would have absorbed every brilliant hue of its magnificent, unpredictable spectrum. Had I realized that the number of my days being locked away in mystery was an inspirational blessing, I would surely not have bartered my soul for an although eternal, solely bleak existence. The whole of my presence is saturated in irony. My fledgling desire for the safety of immortality has morphed into a monstrous loathing fear of the same. For I am imprisoned in my escape and my destruction will be my ultimate salvation. Knowing even to chance a glimpse of you begs my surrender, it is without contrition I willingly resign myself to it. I will continue to play the devoted slave till she tires and lays to rest. Let the closing scene in this drab old musky theater be colorful and gay, and my running to greet you be the final recreant act. You, my beloved Sunrise, shall be the last these ancient eyes behold. As soon as the Moon has finished her dance. Until Oblivion, The Forever Craven