Name Of Yours

By: Nathan

He has the eyes of inviolable peace,
of azure, mild, the light for which existence
and nothingness, spectres don't know for sure,
of never percieved whiteness and darkness with
strength filled. The voice that elects tones with
legerity, per music that incessantly on heaven and
earth, plays with sincerity, in the presence of his,
to angels, his existence of transience, a home of
certitude, is.

He has the face, shapeless and of every form never
and ever created, he has the blush of flowers of a
spilled color variegated, but again not of the blood's
strength, it seems, but of its motions of dignity,
inovolatility with which, it infinitely teems, of
shades for every sight, with intensity and
sustainability of a coast's scaur height,
beneath the velvet of resplendence, of eyes
in theirs continuity, that tirelessly blued
heavens contingent independence.

He has the nose of certainity, aquaintance,
and legerity, sustainability and magnificence,
of exalted loneliness, but not vainity, again
of a form for paths, new, of rain, tears
helplessness dissipated due, of royality
stature, own voice of validity nature,
sureness of which ships navigate even on
the storm, that drowns them, of earth's
endurance while unfolding the paths for
the lava warm.

He has the arms, autonomous from a move,
he has arms satiated from necessity and desire
turns groove, forms of which human was not made of,
of the light of which is sun's extent slightly fervent,
them, more divine than the space, more movable
than the restlessness face, which know to compose
a song, even where there isn't one, although with
greater, their existence dreams in tone. He has,
arms with the fingers of darkness, inexaustable light
that falls on me with sharpness, he has nails of forms
of mine, arms with which I tailored my fate line.

He has a walk, from which floor strecthes and hides,
spreads out and creates itself, moderate, from great
glamor that winds, from blue blood, that is more
gracious, a lot, but modest and worthy, that sublime
by self is not. He has turns light but of a strength
of pandemic winds, moves, unrestraint of a humidity
grooves. He has the step of a lightness composed,
from unmeasurable aquaintaces and humbleness
exposed.

He has lips, too bland, again of shaped and
plentiful strength bold, red but of tears pureness,
form of never painted and muses never extoled,
that give a smile from selfishness way, even not
knowing for it, they stay, untold of the wisdom of
discovery, root of diviness heights, of a soaring being
that reflects in humanity, never deceased, of countless
sights.

He has hair, of graciousness desiring, but of
a selfish dew, that from heights is not but that
herbs green winds, aspiring, again light ears in
the distance, on wind's intensity pardoned
hair, in heights air, by vastness of pastures, meadow
and fields boundless humans wills, that are of
diverse shape, someone's forboding someone's
of fine gape.