His/Hers

The beauty is; that you are with me, Plus it is deeper than the deepest sea. But that of which, your beauty cannot begin to explain: Is the devil which gives me/your pain. That it burns like the burning rain. And as I look at you, I will know why you are, Beauty itself, as if the beauty - is as is - costly - one individual. The beauty is always a curse which, flutters it's wings in the air. And fragrant at each end, is the straw with which her/his it comes rigorously independently and like a bolt of lighting, puts a cold in those hearts then freezes his/hers it occupies for eternity and for all but one hour it burns as beauty teaches it, how it yearns.