The Symphony: Concerto in B Major

Pretty...
Nah that's not you by far...
You're too...
Intelligent to be pretty...
So I like to call you pulchritudinous to your face
You understand it's far from an insult...
The conductor
To the orchestral strings
In my symphony of
Hum-de-la hums
Of symbolic symbols of...
Esoteric...
Connotations of...
Sultry pieces of scrap metal
From some third world country in your mind...
Legato murmurs
I take you back to your future...
You're simply here in the present visit a state of being
For I am...
Worth it...
I am...
Worth...
Not quite you...
But the model two year's before your type
Upgrade with a subscription
To...
"Damn...you're fine as...."
Pure
Sugar
Cane...
In the fields
Of the Virgin Islands
Equipped with everything but a virgin mind
You're anything but a virgin
To the light of the earth
Rolled between damp fingertips
Searching for a glimpse of a vagrant mind...
Lenses to my soul...
Pupils dilated...
Stop smoking me...
I tend to have that effect...
Chances are....
There's something about you
That I'm supposed to find...
Something of normalcy
But there is nothing normal about you
Nothing normal about this...
Descendant of Oshun
You must be prolific
Poignant ebony majesty
More flavor than sodium chloride concentrated
And...
Love
You must be love
On two legs
And shoulders to carry the weight of the normal things
That pour out from the depths of your mind
Mere mortals unworthy
Pretentious...
Something like that...
Most of the time
And the rest
Is the silent fire
Burning the earth between your thumb and forefinger
Repeat strings here...
Crescendo the decrescendo
Impossible?
Just as much as being a prostitute and pimp
Which is how it always is...
But let me play for you
And tell you how...
The grandeur that is your silence
Is equivalent to all of the words
In this piece...
Let me
Live...
Love
Learn...
To be in your aura...
With the prospects of my greatness rise..
Speak fluently in the dialect of you
In a mind of my own
In the future tense
As the present tense
Expands my cipher
And the pizzicato
Carries out my symphony until we reach
The fermata
Where the life of every syllable's existence
Is held in the tips of our pens
Until...
FINE.