We sketch sweetness
into palms' promise,
as hands hold fast
to future's forming canvas
and adoration's ambience
sullies embers
of long-etched echoes.
You remove thorns
that adorn my essence
and utter a prayer
for fairer sands
as I become the moth
of your muse,
offering opiate kisses
for your amusement only
and my inner-child
turns to wilder ways.
My yearning for you
no longer yawns,
as dawn dreams
of truth's togetherness
and we become guardians
of our shared gains--
You are an exhibition
of my existence,
the ultimate pathos
of peripheral perfection
and I...
am a thousand anagrams
arced
across your heart.
Honorable mention
Adding your comment:
Just amazing. Beautiful thoughts here and I am sure you are more of a butterfly than a moth, unless, of course, you are alluding to yourself as the moth moving into the light of your love!
Clappy* 
