Perfect birth

Perfect Birth
Upon this blank page, before the whispers of the letter is spoken into the weave of the word which spells the meaning, the message born within, through which, intertwined with the next letter and the next, comes joined together with another word weaved, through which their conjoined meanings combine and align to create words in sequence, as the poetry begins to give birth before the fertile womb of the blank page, as the words weave and intertwine into the next word and the next. Creating a poetry seething, beautiful, intricate, intimately complex, as the meanings of the words come together to create a poem that breathes the life of inner meaning, in the depth of their sacred inner sounds, with deeper depths of meanings profound, as they abound upon the blank page, as if written by an ancient sage, as they weave and intertwine in a paragraph made with lines; of words with voices strong and true, that speak to the depths inside of you, as one word joins another, and those words are two, and then another comes and the verse flows free, the words now a trinity, and as the verse is borne from the sacred power of the silence before the storm of the poetry seething within, the birthing pains of the muse are the sounds of a lover giving birth, to the beauty found within the chiming fetters of the blank page, as I rue and sing a lament for the death of sweet silence, as the story unfolds before the words broken silence, and in the music that is born, from the birthing cries of the muse with love in her heart and tears in her eyes. She cry's, calls to the pen, and the child's hand, holds him like a lover, bows to a king, crowns him a man, in the delicate fateful stroke of her graceful sovereign hand, with which in love she pours forth to entwine within his soul a verse, filling his heart with new birth, as the inspiration flows from her jeweled heart, shinning light to entwine upon his art, that begins as he starts to write first the letters then the words, spoken before the power of the blank page, that whispers of promise so sweet despite its age, the king crowned child with steady hands, hears the whispers of his muse sing upon the lyre in his heart, louder than the lion, champion to the music in his soul. As she bestows. Words begotten from the deepest corners of time itself, to dance with poetry amongst the fairies and the elves, that they might join in chorus, in the middle of the forest, with the music that graces their ears, as the music sings a melody to the deep and the wild, a poetry seething, in the heart of a child. That sung his song, pen in hand, upon the sacred power of the blank page, that he might wage war upon the silence, with a sovereign providence, of words of deeper depth, that as he pens his poem in melodic verse the fairies and angels do rehearse, the many colors and notes of this poetry alive, which breathes with a music from deep inspiration, that comes from the titillation of the music of the muse, her heart strumming the strings of the lyre, into the listening ear of her lover so dear, the child, her king, and the poem their child. As verse after verse the poem is compiled, by the wits whim and whiles of the muse and her lover, as each sings a song to one another, and in heated hearts the song is heard, as if the sound was the song of angelic birds humming to the music of words written upon the soul, that they may find lovers of their own, as they wrap, the two lovers, the muse and her king, under the brilliant white feathers of their wings, to raise in chorus, as the fairies sing, and the many bells the angels ring, the trumpeting music of heaven, that sings as notes as soft as mist, to intertwine in the poetry of this. that as the poetry seethes and burns with life, the muse, with lips locked upon the child's heart, consecrates herself as his wife, and the two lovers, form a dance in verse, which upon sheets of the blank page they give perfect birth.