She was passionate grace —
Her prime two-hundred years agone,
Her name thrived in every page
Of the stories, the plays, the songs,
She was the lover's muse,
The shine in loving gazes,
The solution to blues,
The steps of waltz dances,
The secret serenade songs,
The dialogues all night long,
The tender words of a poet,
The black and white photos in a locket —
But her magic has long since
Faded— the world
Left her behind,
Little did we know,
To us she was bind —
Romance isn't dead,
No, not yet, not yet—
Like the warmth of afternoon sun
Over the peaking hills
Venturing each window as
Evening sets still,
She's alive and well,
Reveling in her new form,
Prayers in her name,
Sonnets in form of playlists,
Lockets in form of lockscreens,
Do you see she lives just the same?
She lives in every lover's
Sweet, passionate kisses,
Tight, protective embraces,
The nervous grip of palms,
The intertwining tongues,
The shared laughter,
The tears and banter;
For as long as we love
To love,
She continues
To exist —
