Who will believe my verse in time to come,If it were filled with your most high desserts?Though yet,heavon knows it is but as a tomb Which hides your life,and shows not half your parts.If I could Write the beauty of your eyes,And in fresh numbers number all your graces,The ages to come would say,This poet lies, Such heavenly touches ne'er touch'd earthly faces .So should my papers yellowed with their age,Be scorned,like old men of less truth than tounge;And your true rights be termed a poet's rage,And stretched metre of an antique song: Sonnet XVII Shakespeare.
With each stroke of my pen this image :The picture clear in my mind of an angel ,Painstakingly resists my frail attempts at capturing her and holding the wondrous, gracious nature of this moment in time for the world to see .The madness that surrounds my feelings is the dire consequence of ,honest emotions that feed the dreams ;I live in endless pursuit.Haunted by the dream to paint the vision of this celestial creature thus given to the day and owning the night. This dream fleeting ,elusive cannot be captured !These labors, ceaseless and agonizing ; must occupy A good portion of the hearts and souls of countless men... To make something out of these emotions and thoughts and of re-living the moment and etching it in the fabric of time,; making it real and lasting,.From the very moment our paths crossed. I have been infatuated with the image of an angel conducting the symphony of a restless night. This is the risk we take ,by letting ourselves be consumed by the flames that," Emerson" has shown us start from embers - and consume everything around them until; The whole of the world feels the fire that "sparks eternal passion".
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