This Is What Love Means
[by Dr.Who3]

He, turning from looking out of the only 
window in the tower room which once 
served as prison to the pile of rags and bones, 
cradles gently the skull found there 
and when a paper falls from the bundle of rags 
he reads it aloud speaking gently :

Penned in her own dear hand.

I was kissed by a thousand poets 
whose wondrous words exposed 
the nakedness of my soul alone
and whose dreams clothed my spirit
in passion such as may be equaled
only in the heart of the sun,
that great fiery orb of Heaven,
before once I tasted the truth of
love or felt the first sweet caress
of your gentle whimsy.

'Twas then I knew they were
but distant echoes of your own
great love reflecting in time
and tide as that which is eternal must.

Now ride I upon the words of poets
carried as on wings
to the edge of the eternal
where time hath loosed it's grasp
upon the heart. . . . .

Here the missive ended.


He looks down at the skull so
gently cradled in his arms 
and replies :

I bless the pens of poets
who like angels walk among us,
lifting to Eternity the weary.

Where shines brightest 
the truth of love upon the gentle soul 
but in those words?
From whence came such magic
as to awaken you, my own dear Heart?

Across the void of time you call,
from the other side of dreams.
Across the void of time I answer.
This is what love means.