I wonder if the essence of silence be meant to steer
The mind to find replacement with a lonely tear
For while the imagination compel anxiety and fear,
One might slow recognize such is passion austere.
While she is the center attraction to my contentment
I wander through measures of memory silent lament.
She is the soul, hers is the ailment I wish to compliment
With swift memory, a certain sweet solace implement.
I did once know her to hold me with impressive demand
The sort a man might forever search in vain a land
Whereby woman becomes the love of outstretched hand.
Yet while the days pass slow, I remain in a fashion
That man that once imagined this only a provision
Toward her elegance, a certainty in eternal passion.