The following is an emulation of the poem “To _ _ _” by Edgar Allan Poe.
Not long ago, the writer of these lines,
In the mad pride of intellectuality,
Struggled to find the words to express how weak she really was.
Denied that ever an emotion could overcome logic.
Feelings that arose within the human heart, too painful to write.
Beyond the utterance of a human tongue.
And now, as is if in mockery of this claim, such an emotion has overcome her.
Three words; three foreign syllables
Made only to be murmured by the strong.
By angels dreaming in the moonlit dew:
I love you.
These words stir the abyss of her heart.
Words that were once unthought- like thoughts that are souls of thought
Richer, far wilder, far diviner emotions
Than those she had felt before.
Words that not even the mighty could hope to utter.
And I! My spells are broken.
My eyes fall from your eyes.
I cannot speak- I cannot think.
Alas, I can feel; for this feeling it unlike any other.
I stand motionless.
Vulnerable to your stare.
Gazing, entranced, and weak to your words.
That were meant to open a gate of dreams.
For thee only.