And, herewith, I do not hesitate to give myself doze for the drows, in despair and in anguish in order to have my sight on you.
The hunky-dory, super-duper, zero cool and peachy lagniappe and largesse where you are in a position to grant to this thick and fast tyrannical and bestial world is nothing but tact and charity.
As long as there remains a kaput and weary sense of tendency in my heart, I will predominantly and vigorously sustain with my recollection of you.
And the sheer sense in the word “home” found itself being invariably and evenly subsumed and embodied, anytime, I used to utter your name.
The vacuity and desolation that have taken refuge in the corridors of the castle, erected by you and I dominate are the disasters and the catastrophes encountered without the audibility of your voice being heard elsewhere in the room.
I benevolently and benignantly hold each beat of my heart in a self-imposed seclusion for your heart that rests upon a lonely planet.
And the piety and partiality lost to the sight; they are not lost to the sight indefinitely and the fragrance still lingers upon them.
Your truancy while schooling preyed upon and exploited my own life whilst I was being haunted by your blissful recapture painted down the memory lane.
And proclivity and fondness cannot be declared in a front line where your name is not heard of.
It is not elsewhere but nowhere, I roam without stumbling upon some thoughts, surrounded by you.
Yours is a face that could anchor a billion ships.
You are a precis and a paragon of charm, debonair and style.
The smile with which your face is decorated is a magnetic illumination that lights up a thousands of pitch black, jet black and unlighted castles, erected during the Edwardian era.
Dandies of the 20th century are reflected on your pristine attire.
You are an entire spectrum of an ancient aristocracy that transcends the sense of suave and shuttle diplomacy.
Your unsullied and flawless complexion and engraved hallmarks and traits could distinctively make any Tom, Dick, and Harry weak in the knees.
Your charisma would take you along the red carpet of London’s Albert Hall.
You would even decorate the covers of The Vogue and The Watchtower.
You give birth to innovative genres to an upcoming sonneteers.
Pivotal is your masculinity and it stares at your glare.
Your flash and dazzle make the onlookers hallucinated.
The charm that you carry is the manifestation of your lavish upbringing and impeccable academic credentials.
Your wit and bon mot are the reflection of your attractiveness.
Yours is a face that inspires a poet; poetry and art are embedded in you.
The art of penning a sonnet has never been a strange phenomenon with you and it is invariably a part and parcel of your lifestyle.
A certain je ne sais quoi that is invested in you makes you an exception whose lustre and glaze create a protagonist for a Booker Prize winning novel.
The audacious and assured spirit rooted with your dynasty is your signature trademark.
You are a whole package.
