So Not 18

Could I say you are like mid-day some time after spring?

You're the summer when the sun is out, but are hotter still to me.

A beauty truly flourishing, and twice as nice as a sweet young thing should be!

You're ravishing nature is prevalent, yet its permanence won’t ring to infinite so easily.

Ultimately each beauteous thing will find age’s absence when this green beauty turns to brown.

So I think I'll preempt the crashing fade out now, and jot this down.

The lovely shine that is you, before it folds into times destruction of what used to only be called "now".

The truth is that you cannot stretch summer beyond the brow of it’s longest doggy-days, nor pull it past the chill of fall, or into winters grays. While even summer still leaves sunburns and has no permanence at all, you bring peace to the eye and in the mind inspire thoughts of all the strong pursuits of longevity through the use of rhapsody, to which my heart now falls.

You are a hottie with a body, hot enough to sound like stolen property, but this temporary visionary treat has only one real fate, and that is its retreat.

Yet, for but a moment, I'd swear the hands of time are abstinent from their glare on you. Their corrosive course on your fairness, is a natural force who, without too much care for suggestions in direction, should only be denied it’s rancor through my pens celebration of the skin you're within, with which is imbued a shine of the kind that needs to be mine and from it my words bloom.

Sweetly you are the exception sweetie, as here with my words I’ll paint your beauty to this page.

Death wouldn’t have a chance for erasing this. These, my turns in phrase; my praise.

Where time leaves wrinkled lines along it’s path down a face, you by this truth written, seem to last past the grave, almost untouched by any ill fate.

A great truth, the proof of the scrawling on this paper stage. Without refute this fact reiterates in our day by day; that as we live, breath, think, and read there will not come a day that your blooming esthetic will let me forget it, nor will it be lost for posterities sake! Your beauty, my keepsake.

-A modernized paraphrase of William Shakespeare's 'Sonnet 18' by Stori-