بِسْمِ اللهِ الرَّحْمٰنِ الرَّحِيْمِ

my Gift: why do you not speak? what puzzles must I unlock, what language must I learn, to know what swims inside your soul, what hides behind the surface underneath? how I long to shower you in love, soak you with affection, so we might see how high you grow, and find your most potential. waiters wait, either on tables or for Fate, that they might find their sought, worthy of all the chase.

~

my Muse: from a distance, my beacon shaded from the peeking light of trees, surrounded by the forest and its green, tropical or temperate, or some shade in between, I wonder what surprises, caught in the corner of her eyes, while still she held her iris, a captured frame, a piercing gaze, a smile or a grimace it's hard to say, but with her as centerpiece, I find the portrait perfect and complete.