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Written on lovers row... This will by no means be my best piece, but a testament to my current state.

Behind every palace lies a nubian princess, worshipped by the people as an eternal goddess. From which all pockets of truth cannot escape but to date captures mens eternal desires hang- cut like drapes of her veil, covering his very eyes to the mystique of irregularities incomprable but to demise. Yet behind them eyes, he can see thee's dreams, because on them eyes is his world or so it seems, a women woven with the fabrics of fortitude's and grace's dreams. Straight from cloud 9, his girl of chocolate wrapped in cream, with a gown of cleopatra's fitting to the seam. Yet if seams tear and she seems tore, you see the soul of god's angels just not touching the floor. Yet he is flawed, all the way turned up, if he worked to show his love, he'd be left all the way burnt up. Straight to a crisp, not stray to the list of anyone less, he'd forever be remiss. So he redressed her, with the colors of shaka zulu, she is the revolution and thus he can't avoid her pull. He rotates still images of her movements of life, and sees what ms. Picasso saw in reflections as a wife. That art imitates life, or life imitates art, he's saves that imitation love as a flattery of a purest kind. Yet he pours the wine, from the grapes which she passed over, and notices he too had seen fate pass slower. Now on her time seven days felt like years, when she built a whole world from the bosom of her tears. So he couldn't let one drop, like he couldn't let her go, grabbing her and each tear praying he'd one day show her face from the veil and reveal her as he sees it. A goddess among mortals, not as easy to believe it but he believed what he knew even when she couldn't perceive it- would turn out to be his harshest realization as he summoned up the courage to surpass that brief simulation, forgive his heart's stimulation for when presented with this gift of god's initial creation, he had previously held-fast noting the intonation until he heard the voice which gave him no choice, so he chose to lay down his words and give in to what he heard. It was meant to be that way, it was meant to be ______.

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