Since I'm a yits, and tend to completely exhaust things before I'm done with them, I've added yet another verse to Soft Spoken... Expect more, lol...

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And so what if I walk this cold, dirt highway,
And what if I remark, on how the moon falls,
In the bosom of the hills,
Winking to the night, shadowing sun’s melodic calls,
And a cool night’s wind pushes long unkempt grass back in waves,
Dew flowing with the breeze, eddying and flowing, in perfect still,
Save the whispering of the wind,
So the rolling hills meet the sky, through some higher artist’s will,
And so what if I say that that point, is all that really matters in the world,
If, where the two realities meet, floods forth heavens unfurled,
And as my feet might brush along the dusty floor,
In haggard steps of lead,
I might come upon some resting place,
And remark on the beauty I'll no doubt soon forget,

Along the winding path, by the illusion post,
I can’t believe I’d almost offered up,
Moonlit waters, for gaunt branch’s grip,
Under the visions of her Lethe-en sup,
Naught behind, to push onward their goals,
Each note sounds once more, swelling with the prismic rain,
Passing glimpses, time-worn script along the walls,
Chasing a disembodied whisper, that brings us home again,
“In time,” she’d say, “for ain’t that always where we’re fate,
“Into the clearing, that becomes this end, if but means remains the gate,”
Sending off a glancing kiss,
Hesitant, the fighter, who’d kneel down before the bout,
You know after all, when it rains, it pours,
After the flood, all the colours came out,

Soft spoken jest, s’all it really is,
Like radiating, shifting sands,
Flames lick the soul, and stir the mind,
As time flows free, from hand to hand,
And with each grain that cascades, rises from the depths, a roaring squall,
To quench these metaphors, and soak faded canvas sheer,
Made impure by strokes from the artist’s hand,
To cup one’s fingers in the river of hue, and sip the nectars of fear,
And gaze into colours fusing, in open reflection of compassion’s chime,
Set aflame in the wake of sun, ripping sky and time,
In all o' the colours, of the days and the night,
It hangs, enamouring, stills idle hand’s wrath,
Unconstrained, flow to the tools,
And we'll embark on creation’s path;

Forgotten soul, of withered hand,
With a sigh, paints what he sees,
So as she drew towards him,
The sight bore him to his knees,
Practiced touch, diffused into,
Devil’s tears, like rain upon,
Trembling hand, falls; broken down,
From delicate lips, refusing to be drawn,
“But soft…” he spoke, “what subtleties therein; see how the shadow’s cast,”
“Across her cheek, blushed so fair…” through the tears that won’t hold fast,
“Idyllic goddess, now I see,
“Beyond my pen hide truths unseen,”
So he set down [aside] his quill, sat him down,
And then began to dream,

As the breath of the world,
I wish I could say something, deeper than these words let on,
To fill every crevasse, completing the soul,
Profound in a manner, surpassing the bounds of the song,
Sympathetically whispering sweet nothings in your ear,
Yielding child of desire, fleeting bliss of silver haze,
That descends from stained glass waterfalls,
And envelopes the mind’s eye’s gaze,
To dream again, exhale one’s soul, and forge tapestry imbued,
To shape the scene, a wondrous trance, and then believe it true,
Seamless spheres of auburn bliss,
Longingly, eye for eye, though never seen,
What could I do but dive,
Fool I was, to feign serene,

Ascending in the misty spring-time fog,
Glistening, in the glass eyes of morning dew,
That pass wary glimpse from grassy vantage,
Upwards, spiralling against skies of hue,
On the hand of the wind, flowing together in fragile light,
Of daybreak o’er the valley, refracted in sinuous sward,
Tearing the horizon, by illusionary seams,
Set ablaze this sea; emerald abyss; sirens holding the fjord,
Silken veils plunge from untapped nexus, signalling the sky to fall,
Though all conceived, as the world gives way, is the beauty of it all,
And what bliss it is, when you know that this,
Is how you’ll remember it once it’s spent,
That, through fleeting sights, as time slips by,
We'll once more make the ascent,

Seeping into consciousness,
Emotions coursing together, in some abstract dance,
Far cry from the thought themselves, epitomized,
In a moment’s grasp of purity, drawn in a sneaking glance,
And then a sort of hush, descends upon the scene,
Faces off the wall, stilled in silent awe,
Against sheer beauty beyond words,
Frozen in the foreground, of the wraithlike winter’s thaw,
Blue-white frost caressing crimson edges, forming the perfect contrast,
That perpetuates into eternity, and holds its brilliance to the last,
And it's here I can lay myself down,
Let tender rainfall catch in my hand, thrown absently askew,
And speak soft the only words of justice to their warmth,
... I love you.

I have read this through and through - if this is your conclusion, then so be it - certainly an ideal termination, but your poetic mind may wish to take further.

I would like to praise this particular work of yours as very special .........