Catwalk Queen

I admit, so many beauties have
strutted down the models’ catwalk.
Tall, shapely, glistening girls,
with curvaceous contours
and kissing curls. But my love,
I believe, is queen of all.

For she’s the one with glittering crown!
She's clothed in Venus’ goddess gown,
and shines so supernova bright,
who in this cesspool’s darkest night

did rise like sweet Aurora’s dawn.
She met me on one misty morn,
when I was just a fractured thing,
a boy without a song to sing,
(a bashful bird with broken wing.)

And when we kissed, my needs were met,
and all my life I won’t forget
that kissing gate, her sylvan smile,
and how we sat upon that stile

entwined, as ivy clings to tree.
And what my model means to me
I cannot breathe. For she’s my breath,
and her return was life from death.

For yearning years, we were apart,
two pieces of one broken heart.
But when the planets were in line,
and we’d matured as vintage wine,

we met, once more, and merged as one.
She smiled, then all my grief was gone.
And all those wasted waspish years
seemed trifling as our childhood’s tears.

These words are true, for I’m sincere.
Without her, I would not be here.
I'd be an urn of dead man’s dust.
This estimation you can trust!