She is a flower given

in summer time,

full of ocean-ness;

it's vastness swims

in her eyes.

She moves soft winds before her;

floating lightly;

shiny new

with a young soul

touched only by Sentiments

Innocent;

all experience her delight.

She has never known Mean Love,

only Love Requited.

Joy seldom comes to the Stapled Heart

and hers has never been.

I am older than she;

I am Mangled Innocence;

yet still I crave what I see-

her soft putty etherealness;

her purity.

I am the Winter Bulb

underground;

she, Summer Sun

warming ocean waters.

I need to know

can her heart,

and my dark bulb

merge together

and remain fertile?

What irony

meeting brings

in words wandering

cross pages

when she says;

'I love you.'

My Winter and her Spring

were clutched in her Hearts First

meandering

into Love's Realm.

When individuals

invest

their best souls

and their best

Summer Flailings

we must perforce

measure the fit.
 

She the rare soul not potted and not yet a bulb a'growing

before me now

professing

to love my old soul

covered by

winter ground

frozen.

I ponder saying to her:

'Whisper me

just one word,

your soul's summer smells

inhaled,

your bouquet refreshing

my dusty soil;

my winter eyes greying.

I am mighty stirred

by youthful seeds

yours;

which arrive with summer's souling-

fitful winds blowing

Innocence

which coaxes old flowers

to new blooms.

But I am, '

I said

'I am

too old for you

but not for Summer's kiss

and planted her cheek

with my last Winter kiss

and set her free

to sail

Summer Winds

to find her own

true ,

younger Prince

closer to her own age.

And I died

surely that day

having forfeited life's Last Love Note

for Youths Future Bliss.