By my candle’s dull flame I conjured thee,
A nameless knight with naught to repent,
More stunning than a king could hope to be,
Who spilled ink as tears upon my parchment.
So breathed I life into thy silent form,
And stood you with your long ready sword,
Prepared to shield me from each churning storm,
While I promised to fight with thee, sweet lord.
And should you spring forth from beneath my quill,
I shall gift thee with my own humble heart,
When your hands brush my face, I will be still,
Lest I should but dream and, thus, you depart.
But thou shalt remain, leashéd by my thoughts,
Frightfully has your perfection been wrought.