Beauty is tragedy

I killed someone the first time I saw her. Florence. 
I never knew my attention. It became someone's.  My essence.
It ran wild,it spun in furthest of heights,in maddest of reason.
While I was sinking in lowest depths, trying to reach my own self, treason.
I never owned a heart.
Florence in  you I was lost .
Sketched you were,and came to be.
A sober artist couldn't, but a charmed architect,in his wildest imaginations, in his earliest dreams. 
For it  does  already feel like a mistake, that I don't remember my own name.
Your beauty is an accident. 
Oh nicotine ,or is this serotonin,that blocks my eyelids.
Oh what a tragedy,  I couldn't see.
For my eye you blinded, my heart you banded.
With such piece of art, rose wars of intuition against reason.
With such a lovely sight, I buried my eyes in my heart,to love as to see; to die without. 

 I killed someone the day I saw it. That portrait. Of her. No sober artist could sketch that; but under a spell,in his wildest imaginations, earliest of dreams. For such beauty is an accident. Glamour crept from  tragedy; I couldn't see:I lost my breath the first time I saw Florence. 
By death I could humour the divine comedy. City of Michelangelo n Da Vinci. city of Dante. Through the ninth ring of hell I could see the garden of  Eden.