# Sanctivaultum Vaultuaryum

By [DaCappen](https://paragraph.com/@dacappen) · 2025-10-11

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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?

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*Originally published on [DaCappen](https://paragraph.com/@dacappen/sanctivaultum-vaultuaryum)*