It was through your caressing warmth within a mind plagued by the hells of Dante, that I had found solace.
For you Loveena, with love so vaster than any ocean on our Earth.
Read original post prior: https://ofbloodfireandstars.wordpress.com/2017/02/23/on-friendship/
I. It is her, my soothing myrrh. Her whom uses her God-given time and heavenly swirls to create twirls of prayers far exceeding the value and elegance of all pearls on Earth. Birth to the presence of they, Angels of the Heavens, who safeguard my heart as instructed by her thoughts, of this friend everyday.
II. It is her, a rose I infer. Her to whom a single second of the Universe fails to win against in understanding my seep sorrows, by deep burrows I dig, I lie big and thorough; yet how is it that she still wins. Perhaps, well. With her petals as a shield she conceals their swears, so perhaps for this friend breaths of airs that truly cares.
III. It is her, a connoisseur. Her whom sees the cold in the unappreciated told and so unfolds her rescuing laughs. Thus, her dignity so irrevocably gold, her affinity held honourably bold. Her resonating abundance of altruism is more than what a friend is supposed to do, to this friend
IV & VII & XII. It is her, my beloved whisperer. Her whom with educative odds may occur when proposed pods of oblivious opinions blur all surface of morals. Her, whom comes to aid once a wrong is made because one has strayed which swayed the collective against the maid. A reach so as to teach wise speech in everything, that this friend do, say, preach.
VI & IX & XI. It is her, the Good Samaritan I concur. Her whom blossoms in minutiae; a reduction never possible. For the Universe sacrifices stars vastly bigger in size, yet shy of her rich stardust. Perhaps, a glitch in evolution. A pinch of Heaven living on Earth. No other matches or catches the same flame she fights the wicked that seethes through Mankind now more than ever. For the rest of us are vulnerable to the notion of survival, exposed to the motion of rival. Her whose refusal to reciprocate will straight discard your bait of hate and negate your irate of everything. Her, my Lady, of whom all that is good and just resides within; it is this manifestation of equilibrium, that this friend ever strives to be.
VIII & X. It is her, void of poseur. Her whom tells how it is, sells away the bliss, open your conscious when she beautifies a syllable for that audible may be the salvation one did not know one needed. Her whom through her genuine self depict their otherwise cruel illusion of cute, and sugary as truly brute, and frugally; a sake of observance, for this friend.
[…]
V & XIII & XIV. It is her, akin to my Saviour. Her whom followed my shadow into the borders of my realm, allowed my demons to push her into the corners of my hell. How does she do it? How does she walk barefoot allowing her tender feet to burn against the floors of fire that my mind possesses?
Perhaps, that is what they do. Maybe she is an Angel. She most definitely is an Angel.
Quantum. 