Matters of mine heart fain undone of thus fatalities. With these very instruments I’ve conquered and buried. Half galloped man beast sound like rainfall; sayest only prayers for me, my Queen. My heartsword I hold for battle. With man speed I hath not taken on what was nature’s recount, Will I ever I pray you?
Hear a Lute playing friend but music of dainty woes in repetitive verses. I’m hesitant to move and miss from his friendly jester the reminder of my Queen’s eyes. Significant chords easily shape the room painting your deep brown orbs. In my timepiece you are just the way I remember you.
Poor you What white elephant shoes became of combative weedy tennis matches burned at your “black and mild” Like the picture in blue jeans and a tie She takes the form of a sugar crumb and to the wind naturally Dense morsel boils at the seams to Truth Whose cultivated strength rode the railways instead She tried to lock a smile amongst dreads Oh dread locks they called it Black ropes not so tough hung from your scalp in a cold stiffness Small parts only fit for combtails and hair grease Corkscrew-sarcasm Set on the lover’s end of house_ playing in God’s blind spot How ripe was the fruit tree in lust? No patience. No virtue. Let you go to Galatians for fresh produce. The mind’s eye also weeps loose charms unconnected to brash alarms firing on the porch in your underwear sit sane for once in new peace.