Channelling e.e. cummings

amidst a world I've never shared, joy precedes

every moment, his gaze stills the air:

his tender touch is the song of my soul that he whispers,

what i long to bury beneath he somehow knows

his genteel touch disarms my very thoughts

though my walls are as a military's keep

he discards brick by brick every defense as time weathers

(expertly, amazingly, masterfully) away all mountains

and if his desire be to abandon the work, i and

my soul will whither, mere dust sifted into the wind, 

as though a storm descended upon my keep

to crumble and wash away its very existence;

nothing exists in such a world as this

beyond the quiet of such patient gentility: whose light

guides me with such a honeyed sheen,

that both today and tomorrow are revealed

(there is no answer to the question of what unearths 

or buries my soul; yet his touch knows 

the map to my keep and my walls)

his light is the only in our new eternity.

Writing Prompt #32 from Think Written's website: Rewrite a Poem.  Take any poem or short story you find anywhere.  Rewrite it in your own words.

I used the following poem expertly and beautifully written by e.e. cummings:

somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond

somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience,your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully ,suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility:whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens;only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands