Ode to My Lady

Beauty is of she
as the heavens
upon the earth.
And no man,
if not caressed
by her deity,
can speak without
understating
who she truly is
in all her stunning glory
My Lady.
I call upon
the immortal souls
of the troubadours
and on that of the divine
master of Stil Novo.
He, who placed
on her throne
of beauty,
Beatrice divine,
celestial guide
through the
eternal relms
of paradise
and purgatory,
to plead he pray
for me the Muse
of Art and all beauty,
to make of me
her humble instrument,
so as I dare complete
this supreme task,
and sing of love
for everlasting beauty.
To sing, as no mortal
has ever done before,
of a godhead offspring
whose true name
is, for mortal tongue,
too pure to name.
Oh Kalliope,
mother and patron
of poetic souls,
lend me your lips
that I may achieve
with your whisper
of love and Lust,
the forefilment
of my destiny,
to own with mind,
heart and lips,
the words of passion,
capture and conquest,
a hymn to beauty,
a chant of chants,
and to sing
as only you can,
of the ecstatic beauty
of the sweetest
amongst maidens,
who has become
your true instrument
of passion and desire,
through deeds
of love and joy,
as your equal,
and daughter
of Aphrodite.
May I enchante
her, oh Mother,
for I am far from
worthy.
I will, in return,
devote myself to thee
as humble servant
of your cult forevermore.
My Lady walks by night,
with a crown of stars,
that blush at her beauty.
Her lips, blood red
as precious Ruby.
Her skin fair as perles
born from the foam
of the virginal birth
of the Goddess' glory.
Her tongue,
sweet honeycomb,
from the nectar
of the cup of Zeus,
her Father.
Her breasts,
alabaster containing
the love potion
of the arrows of Eros,
sweet and strong,
of which no mortal
can return to other
human love,
after tasting such
pure proclivity,
flowing from her
satin, red nipples.
Her eyes pure diamonds
no man cannot hunger,
as smitten he'd be
at one look into their
deep ocean of feminin
procacity. Her thighs,
pure audacious fury,
that no god
could ever dome,
as they dance
to unveil pleasure,
as no living flesh
has savoured
from the beginning
of time. Lucky those
whom had their lips
and tongue in that
amenity.
Beneath all this,
hidden, unveiled,
the sancta sanctorum,
allowing entry
to the daelphic
mysteries only and,
to those she has
chosen as initiates
to untold sensations
of divine
comprehension.
True stolen fire,
from the brazier
of the gods,
beyond which
even Prometheus
was sentenced
to torture,
having attempted
reveal it to mortal
unholy sight.
It holds the flavours
of perfection,
like the first wine of Eden,
seducing and subduing
Satan himself
to miserable serpent,
fallen from the heavens
forever, for having
not cherished such
sanctity.

Her hands!
Oh, the shivers
they send down
the imaginary
to my spine!
Made to please
from the very first
touch. No lover
can resist.
So sensual
and yet so pure.
They heal the heart
that has been
wounded by
love's bite,
and mend
those crushed
by abuse and hate.

The beauty of
My Lady
is the most
precious
of all.
It is a beauty
of a beautiful soul.
He who loves her
will look beyond
all her attributes
of this material
World, for her
scars of love,
render her everything,
the most beautiful
of all.
I have been bewitched
by what others have
failed to see;
a gentle being
so big in grace
and yet so
sublimely small.
So much this
has made me
fall with her
in love, that
I feel that no
word, under
the heavens
can discribe
her beauty at all.
So, please,
My Lady,
free my heart,
give rest to
my burning,
passionate soul.
Accept my tribute
as one made by
a useless, blundering
fool, who unworthy,
has dared write thee
this Ode. I am only
a useless ripple,
as your words
remind me,
not a wave on
your lake or ocean.
My words lack
what others
possess,
but I offer
you all my
devotion.