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  1. The best things in life are free. As someone said; we human beings never know what we have till it is gone.

    I watched my wife sleeping peacefully in our rather huge bed a smile dancing on my unattractive lips. She reminded me of her, the one whose name ought to never be mentioned, maybe that was why I chose to live by my wife forever. Her hair was like Her's, I knew this because the woman fate had chosen to make my personal devil was the only woman whose skin my touch still longed for, the only woman my hands knew;every fiber of her body was still familiar to my hands. I dreamt of her every night, I still do and I hate it. Jolene's radiant skin was exactly like Her's, her lips, eyes and what I hated most to adore; her hypnotic smile. The thought of Her wiped away the smile from my face and I was almost too sure I was flushing, flushing because I hated loving her imperfections, because I was more than tormented by the memories of us, memories I was sure she too revisited every night before she fell asleep, every morning before she got out of bed.
    My phone buzzed and I gazed at it, sleepy eyes threatening to close any time. The phone made me think of her, her long huge fingers, her broken brown nails that clearly spoke of the manual labour that woman was used to, the glow in her eyes whenever she got a positive email and her half closed eyes as she strained to read her numerous messages, she had myopia and I loved to watch her try so hard to read my messages. I hated the way everything reminded me of her, like they all never existed before fate chose to bind us for life.
    'Luke' My wife muttered in her sleep then put her arm around my waist. Jolene's blonde hair reminded me of my tormentor's dark brown lustrous hair. I had been in love with running my fingers through her hair and she would pout beautifully, a tint of annoyance in her dramatic bottle green eyes; I would laugh and she would hold me tightly, so tightly I could still feel her arms around me. That woman everything a man could possibly want his woman to have; I had been too much of an idiot to see that. I rubbed my small eyes then scratched my forehead hoping the wrinkles would fade away. I had a good number of wrinkles on my rather big forehead; not that I was old, I was hardly thirty five.
    'Cynthia.' I muttered unconsciously then cursed under my breath. There were things I hated after she left, not because I always hated them, but because they told me lies I could not avoid hearing. One of these things was sleep, I hated falling asleep because her image was all I saw in my dreams, I would touch her but she always disappeared without a word, just like she did that night; her lovely eyes dull and moist. The fault had been hers; but mostly mine. I had punished her for loving me, I had wounded not just her heart but also her ego. I hated the fact that I had been able to fall asleep while she, the woman I loved had been unable to blink because of the love she felt. I had not been worthy of her love; but a part of me wished she was there with me, I wanted her to love me as much as she had. I had paid
    for every drop of tear I had made her shed. I never saw her crying but I was more than sure she did, she was tough, she could take anything and still smile like it was nothing. The only mistake she ever made was loving me. Jolene is nothing like her; she does not love me like she had; she does not care about anything but herself; most women are like that. Cynthia was different, she was nothing like them.
    Jolene said something in her sleep and my eyes flew open. Cynthia? Cynthia... Cynthia... I whispered as everything around me began to fade away.
  2. The goddess.

    The tailor's son finally gets Nadia to love him. Her love is pure and she loves him more than he ever loved her, more than anyone has ever loved him. (Love is a gift, an invaluable gift that ought to be treasured.)

    My love, the daughter of a damned soul, so I believe
    Pure her soul is, skin radiant; all my touch needed
    Her purity resembles not Artemis' purity
    Neither does her beauty resemble Venus'

    My love, flowing with flaws, but my love perfect to me is
    Nadia, she that found me, lost I was before she came
    Nadia, she sleeps silently beside me, her head on my beating heart
    I adore her, her imperfections and impurities.

    My hand she holds, within her I want to be lost
    A free soul with her I am, my heart prisoner of her charms
    Hair like wool, eyes with depths even I know not
    That into me look always, that seek to understand.

    Nadia, daughter of a blacksmith, my heart she has
    Heaven and earth for her I would move and my soul for her
    The goddess I hold every night, who more than willingly would die for me
    Her kind of love I had known not before she came to me.

    My goddess walks with grace, but strength of a soldier she possesses
    The goddess who whispers and the wind obeys
    Nadia, perfectly imperfect, her footsteps are never erased
    I love to adore her, she whose features drove me mad, my goddess.
  3. NADIA.

    She that dances like a thousand butterflies
    With grace more than I can comprehend, blacksmith's daughter
    With her wicked hands she curves beauty, she steals my soul
    She loves life, gives life to everything she sets her eyes on.

    Nadia, more beautiful than her name, I a tailor's son, I am charmed
    She looks at me with a smile, her fingers caress my soul
    I am a fool in love, life meaningless without her here
    Nadia, she that is brighter than the moon, I adore her.

    She who possesses Vulcan's soul, crafty and artistic
    She that knows every soldier's weakness
    She that holds fire in her hands, even iron obeys her eye
    Nadia, she the woman I long to hold, but alas! I am a tailor's son.

    The wind whispers her name, the son above reminds me of her
    She that I can reach not, a blacksmith's daughter
    Forbidden my love is, she that warms my cold empty heart
    Nadia! My heart sings with passion whose depths I know not.
  4. I am a believer of love, otherwise most of the things I write would have no meaning, not only to me but to everyone. I am basically going to write about an important aspect of history that is often ignored. People write about heros, skilled swordsmen and they all seem to ignore the people behind the swords, the people in my opinion that possess the real skill. I am a lover of poetry, gives me power only poets like me understand. I can make people envy afflictions, that is how much power a poet possesses.