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A painter who fell in love with his painting, conversed with it.
But love is anxious - When she enters a hushed quietude, he hides the painting and mourns the death of his only love.
This prose poetry is an e...
Good Readers, 'The Enchantress' is at #73 out of 278K stories. Not bad, isn't it? [22.01.2023]
Here you go!
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Enchantress, Remembereth? I am still thy painter.
Look in my eyes, and tell the visage thou viewest. It's thy painter, Enchantress. It's thy painter! Huh! Eons? Centuries? Time renewest? Did thou not pity me while leaving? Tell me, Enchantress. Tell me your heart's content - Speak up, love. Speak up. Oh, the Enchantress of my colossal firmament.
From the fairest beings, the Universe hath ever seen - Thou have surpassed their impression. I never knew how my hands had been - When they were carving thy visage? A turgor, perhaps, hath ushered my consciousness, ensuing in thy creation, tranquil and serene. I refuse myself. I only accept thine. Look at me. Speak to me. Oh, the Enchantress of my plethoric shrine.
Unthrifty loneliness I had spend, Afore thy advent. Like a vision the Lord had send, To emancipate me from untoward solitary. Remembereth? In the arms of waves, we swayed. The floor of Heaven lit up, star-adorned Chandelier. A dream of mine thou were cherished. Let go of Hades. Embrace Cupid. I mourn thy adieu. Oh, the Enchanting of spellbound penned!
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