Sanctivaultum Vaultuaryum
"A Prayer Cast Into Her Silence"

She is a muse, not a conquest.
Years of woe taught me this:
that beauty so vast cannot be held,
only praised.

So I kneel
not for possession,
or to possess...
but for the chance that my worship
may reach her listening ear.

And if granted approval,
a nod, a breath, or a glance,
I would spill the vault of secrets,
cut my palms and let the blood
trace the shape of my devotion
an offering sealed in silence
until her gaze unlocks it.

Her look, her movement, her scent, her presence
these features possess me, mend my soul.
They teach me that divinity walks among us,
and deserves every offering I can make
for the sake of its existence.

Would I to compare her to a flower
one who blooms in a forbidden valley,
the rarest to have ever existed,
petals untouched by ground or fall,
unaged by time,
unbruised by wind,
a blossom so sacred
even the bees forget their hunger
and hum in reverence
to a happy ever after.

To compare her to mountain sides kissed by mist,
as if the heaviest of nature found a way to float in her bliss
where gravity pauses,
and the clouds gather
not to rain,
but to listen.
Where echoes of her laughter
carve valleys deeper than rivers ever could.

To oceans that whisper in moonlight,
stars twinkling on the waves,
her face pulling tides from my chest
emotions crashing against the sand,
sometimes smooth,
sometimes clapping like rocks
against the trembling of my hands.

To frozen sculptures that hold time still
ice so clear it reflects the soul,
snowflakes so unique
none dare mimic her formation.
Not even the hottest sun rays
could melt such beauty
for it would be an embarrassment
to play cruel judicator
on such a victim.
The loss would be too great to bear.
The melt of her snowflake
would cast the world into darkness,
the sun hiding from its shame.

My heart stops to think
how much I have revealed?

Nervous,
I walk through the desert of my confession.
The sand speaks as my feet slide,
exhausted by her presence.
The mirage takes shape
beneath the most beautiful night sky
and clear as day,
the existence of a creator
is undeniable.
For how else could such perfection
exist in the flesh?

But even then,
I would care to remind her:
such beauty cannot be owned.
Only witnessed.
Only adored.

And if she drifts,
if her attention wanes,
I would pause
not to reclaim,
but to ensure my praise
still finds her where she is.

I would speak of
the ache of loving someone
too beautiful to bear
flames so hot
I can only feel them in dreams.
They burn without smoke,
without ash,
but leave me changed.

How that ache freed me
taught me to love
through the art of expression.
I developed the skill
not to possess,
but to see if I am enough now
to stand in her light
without dissolving.

And then,
I would confess:
I was defeated by love.
Unaware of my own devotion
until her image
sent my imagination
into rapid bloom.
She taught me to think, to dream,
that hope was a weapon
crafted as a tool
to shape men such as me.
Men who would go on
to shape existence
in the image of her.

Her beauty gave me the gift to dream
and that dream became a skill,
a sanctuary,
a way to live.
A way to build.
A way to become.

And now
though I began in denial,
though I swore I would only praise
I must ask:
How does her favor fall upon me?
Had she a heart to give,
has this trap sprung upon thee?
Is this the tragedy I dared to hope for
to be chosen
by the very ache
that taught me how to sing?

Sanctivaultum Vaultuaryum
"A Prayer Cast Into Her Silence"

She is a muse, not a conquest.
Years of woe taught me this:
that beauty so vast cannot be held,
only praised.

So I kneel
not for possession,
or to possess...
but for the chance that my worship
may reach her listening ear.

And if granted approval,
a nod, a breath, or a glance,
I would spill the vault of secrets,
cut my palms and let the blood
trace the shape of my devotion
an offering sealed in silence
until her gaze unlocks it.

Her look, her movement, her scent, her presence
these features possess me, mend my soul.
They teach me that divinity walks among us,
and deserves every offering I can make
for the sake of its existence.

Would I to compare her to a flower
one who blooms in a forbidden valley,
the rarest to have ever existed,
petals untouched by ground or fall,
unaged by time,
unbruised by wind,
a blossom so sacred
even the bees forget their hunger
and hum in reverence
to a happy ever after.

To compare her to mountain sides kissed by mist,
as if the heaviest of nature found a way to float in her bliss
where gravity pauses,
and the clouds gather
not to rain,
but to listen.
Where echoes of her laughter
carve valleys deeper than rivers ever could.

To oceans that whisper in moonlight,
stars twinkling on the waves,
her face pulling tides from my chest
emotions crashing against the sand,
sometimes smooth,
sometimes clapping like rocks
against the trembling of my hands.

To frozen sculptures that hold time still
ice so clear it reflects the soul,
snowflakes so unique
none dare mimic her formation.
Not even the hottest sun rays
could melt such beauty
for it would be an embarrassment
to play cruel judicator
on such a victim.
The loss would be too great to bear.
The melt of her snowflake
would cast the world into darkness,
the sun hiding from its shame.

My heart stops to think
how much I have revealed?

Nervous,
I walk through the desert of my confession.
The sand speaks as my feet slide,
exhausted by her presence.
The mirage takes shape
beneath the most beautiful night sky
and clear as day,
the existence of a creator
is undeniable.
For how else could such perfection
exist in the flesh?

But even then,
I would care to remind her:
such beauty cannot be owned.
Only witnessed.
Only adored.

And if she drifts,
if her attention wanes,
I would pause
not to reclaim,
but to ensure my praise
still finds her where she is.

I would speak of
the ache of loving someone
too beautiful to bear
flames so hot
I can only feel them in dreams.
They burn without smoke,
without ash,
but leave me changed.

How that ache freed me
taught me to love
through the art of expression.
I developed the skill
not to possess,
but to see if I am enough now
to stand in her light
without dissolving.

And then,
I would confess:
I was defeated by love.
Unaware of my own devotion
until her image
sent my imagination
into rapid bloom.
She taught me to think, to dream,
that hope was a weapon
crafted as a tool
to shape men such as me.
Men who would go on
to shape existence
in the image of her.

Her beauty gave me the gift to dream
and that dream became a skill,
a sanctuary,
a way to live.
A way to build.
A way to become.

And now
though I began in denial,
though I swore I would only praise
I must ask:
How does her favor fall upon me?
Had she a heart to give,
has this trap sprung upon thee?
Is this the tragedy I dared to hope for
to be chosen
by the very ache
that taught me how to sing?