Fret Not

Oh what is it about you,
That shakes men, poets too?
All it takes is a minute of behold,
For us to want you like a child?

We worship your form,
Building dreams on our mental farm,
Not of despicable thoughts and fantasy,
But of platonic talks and a cup of tea,

I seek to hold not your body,
But the soul that it embodies,
For something this form holds,
Must be purer than gold,

And yet you shy away, moving afar,
Your cheeks rosier than ever,
Sliding your veil and folding hands,
That breaks my heart, not daggers or spears,

And still I advance,day and night,
Like an insect towards light,
Oh is it to my death, my final doom?
I know not, but fear not too,

For I know I shall let no harm,
Befall upon your precious form,
Men like me,
Are dust upon your feet,

So fret not, damsel mine,
And hand me your heart,
I shall bathe it,
In the saltless tears of my soul,
And lay it upon the bed of my spirit,
Singing and playing a lullaby,
With the strings of my soul.

Written on 10:52am, 8.3.2017, edits at 12:10pm on 27.3.2017