She, Florentine

This earthen Italian crust forgives history
its sour blemishes for its placement of her step upon its stone.
She edifies a listless youth in the insistance of her passion.
She sits as queen corona in wherever space she breathes.

She, Florentine.

A home she gives, a bed she gives, a company of interst she gives.
These years melt down to nothing as we speak of an opposite past
marked with brief encounters and occasional shared experience.
Her laugh is the same I remember from the periphery of old observation.
She does not look different, but she is new to me.

She, Florentine.

Rennaisance blood gives life to the city through its wisdom of antiquity.
This broken rock, shaved in creation, stands and commands a
holy reverence reserved for rapturous reputation.
But she is dynamic and living, kinetic and loving, a sight of modern music.
The greatest treasure of Florence.

She, Florentine.

Years of wafting through growth shepherds an ideology that
clings to my name and speaks through me a truth of spirit,
an unsheltered love easy to define and quick to spill
from the softness of my eyes, the shortness of my breath, the exultation
of my hidden heart that bleeds with purpose and aches with
impatience at a calculating mind.

She, Florentine.

She romances her step in the ownership of her stride, which
all at once defines her sense of purpose and her harlequin submission
to the things that make her smile.
She takes my breath and holds it about her with an ease of energy,
a seductive gravity that she commands with never a selfish thought.

She, Florentine.

I, a Man.

Helplessly fixed in the orbital emolliance of a swollen heart,
I see there is no greater truth born as by a soul bleeding in rhapsody
for a woman who allows for change of thought and growth of spirit,
not to be seduced or reduced by fear or trepidation.

I, a Man

Who through her is affirmed in strength and confirmed in the sight
of my own understanding the truth that a man is he who loves intensely,
protects passionately and weeps prophetically for everything he holds beautiful.
That he lives and dies for the woman he loves and accepts no substitute
for the happiness he builds his life for.

I, a Man.

Appraised for the blood I bleed, the thoughts I weave,
the creations that erupt from a restless mind and the frantic ardor
of hands beaten by the sultry conjectures of a heart pining
with a yieldless yearn for a sunset conclusion that ends with her,

She, Florentine.