Page 9 - The First Letter To My Lady.

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I do not know if there’s a Postman’s Park. But I do know I’ll

see you. Eventually.

You left. You left leaving behind a poem meant for the ages.

Seven verses that protrude as daggers of emotionality. Seven

verses that ring with passion. Seven verses that serenade our

sagacious serendipity. A profound professing that inks away

pallid hues. Medical first-aid that’s paper-writ. Soul-food for

the soulless, a recipe for healing. And with your classic coy

subtlety – you went away - bidding adieu at the turn of those

seven verses. You never went out of style.

A composition you knit in paradise falls. It is a seven-

pronged axis of healing featurettes. It was an antidote to

gloom - if ever I felt wobbly – I had a literary Valhalla of

immortal rejuvenation. Who says magic isn’t real? I see those

seven verses weaved ritzy stellaris. An exquisite exquisition

of heartfelt penwomanship.

And as I stare into the pits of your patient perservance.

Plotting