Paradox plagues our ever placid whisper--

for the sun will rise brisk at the hearts engage,

the love we kindle invokes the feet

tha every kiss ages the wrinkles of time.

Our slowly passing lives embrace in pause

whilst the hourglass contains our every whimper

between blurred beats, between lingering whimpers.

The hours, the minutes. They fade due to a whisper

that longs for the other, thus brings an inward pause

of a moon that stood still, of a morning sun soon engaged.

Your eyes they sing harmonies, endless in forgotten time

endless in truth, of hours, of minutes and of our lives they fleet.

Our souls, our souls know unison brings fleet

as vines engulf the other, enfulf our end that whimpers

of our feeble forever, candid with swiftly, seeping sands of time

anchored at the silhouette from you and I. The closure it whimpers

the emptiness of present day evenings, rapid languish by our engaging

fingertips lacing. Parody, Our hearts worry not of such pauses. 

So deadly, they remain unseen. In short, I pause--

In short, I yearn for velvet roses, despite the fleet

their petals blossom at the parting day's engage.

I do not mind, vanishing moments of manic, endless whimper

or shortened age conveyed from hushed wovent whisphers.

We lay, so everlasting despite the outward present that crumbles with time,

Eliot once stated, "Indeed there will be time,"

I once recited in my bed and you listened without pause.

And at the arch of the spine your eyes yawned with a whisper

of wilting roses upon the table, dripping the bleak sounds of fleet

rising with the stars, at the initiation of our whimpers.

Harmonizing heartbeats in turn are but martyrs engaged

in contrasted contradictions of the soul and death engaged,

Your lips, they press so bittersweet. Those torpedoes of time

that guides are receding sands, the core of whimpers

who escort the repose closer. Spirits supsend in pause

while the surface shall wretch, wretch with a wandering fleet.

My peace fathoms my beloved's fervor whimper.

Ageless beauty, incessant innocential grace that whimpers

although our lives swell short, ends quickly in fleet

our love luxuriates the curtain, foreer one instant, forever our pause.