though I shall relent, it doeth hurt.
I bow to her wishes.
is is the summer of bliss I want.
yet I accept her wishes.
in the night..is it wrong to feel.
yet I will be real.
yet she has expressed desire for my fire.
as she cannot deny.
though I cry.
it us her I desire.
to choose the lesser hire.
it is to her respect.
I deflect.
yet I wish it more.
©Pat Connor
P