Blissful Misfortune

My limited and pitiful metaphorical language is incapable of describing the phenomenon that you are. It is inadequate for representing the fantastic dreamlike world of winged creatures, exuberant landscapes and mythical beings that are shown to me by your word and the empire of your starless eyes. I have lost track of the time, writing and composing clumsy expressions of lazy poems that comparing them to others end up being far from masterpieces nor genuine manifestations of love. What can I say about you that you do not know? Any present analogy is an author's matter that does not stem from God nor black magic. Am I allowed to say that you are a flower? Or maybe that your eyes light up the sky? I wonder if I am allowed to compare the colour of the sunset with the end of life, or what I feel. Is it spring the beginning and dawning? While October and autumn announce the pain? Is it true that honey can be compared to tenderness and purple hue to what they last? Needless to mention the comparison between faraway stars with something as absurd as a utopia or even worse than that; to compare women with poetry, which, nonetheless, are just vain metaphors. It is true poetry feeds off metaphors for some people, to think about them takes hours- and rhymes are just a poem's decoration, that is to say, to make them is to over-exaggerate them. As psychoanalysts say, the creation of metaphors is not more than a symptom: "e;a shaping of commitment"e;, it only takes a few clues to expose what is being restrained; something that the subject embraces to represent their suffering. It intrigues me to think about it, I like to think that science is not so different from lyrical composition. And, those creations allow me to block out the monstrously psychotic hole and turn it into the misery of a helpless neurotic, in this case, into a simple blissful misfortune.