Okay, I will never claim to be a poet let alone a good one. Am I a silver-tongued devil or a rambling madman? Is there a difference?

If they can call Mrs Dalloway or The Great Gatsby "classics" then I should be able to put pen to paper, or fingers to keys.

For my love  roaringlion

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Before you all was darkness,
Dark poison whispered through the Devil’s hiss,
So cold and alone,
Hoping for Death’s sweet kiss.

Then you came.

Now light cuts through the dark,
I’m a prisoner loosed of his chains,
As I kiss your honey-lips,
I’m free of my shame.

My fingertips dance through your soft hair,
Like songbirds soaring over harvest wheat.
Beaks crying hallelujah to God,
As in feathered chests hearts beat.

Oh how I long to be those birds,
For thy great gift is also my curse.
It’s impossible for my human tongue,
To give you worthy praise in humble verse.

Your skin so soft and smooth,
Like a world covered in new-fallen snow.
Our lips dance in the dark,
As your love sets my heart aglow.

My love for you is eternal,
And I shall always proclaim,
To the Lord God on high,
Glory and praise in your name.