Season
If the clouds were to have real reason
sent to earth by angel's breath
in the clasp of nar tomorrows
waiting is my love's true test.
For if she's fair and never wanders
her subtle scent messages are blessed,
and thus I feel it is the season,
set loose and lulled by mother earth
when spring is flown and here meanders,
to word her love is why here I wrest.
O write tis true never to waver
weave grown abreast in subtle rhythms
empowdered by the sensate psalms
her swollen lips caress I savor,
on thrift turtle doves wings arising
to seize and know thereof so pleasing.
Yea saunter slow and grasp this vintage,
divine the grape of wraith this path detest,
and in this nest of thoughts confess,
for the sounds of my white sorrows
are set to rest and grieve not rustled page,
where written words accept the sage
that in sun nestled rested blades of grass
is nurtured our love all time will bless.
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