I used to like to talk to love, in poetry though scars would shove, sarcastic fear, ironic there,
and ever wonder what to wear, unbridled nights, untitled fights, to hear that voice was all delight, I used to hike, to walk with love, around it's paths, through flows above, and garden streams where once swam love, within its trance, could entrance one, one moment and the times were young, what torment it had been to love!
so slowly it began with one, though surely it had ran with none, so wicked, crass, and mean and dashed, so helpful with what one would ask, never had it been so true, but weather had it's scene to rue, endeavored to be lean and few, but ever were the dreams of you!
I could not bear the task of you, the times I was in asked a muse, amusedly she laughed a few, the ruses tree, she sashed a view,
I rent onto the flashes you, had given me to give so new, the person you were went so free, endurances I could not see, so maddening you were to me but flattering you oft would be, and in the end you went so there, you were the end, my love, so fair!
I went about my christenings, of other things than love to bring, there were such entertainments yes, but none could touch your love as blessed
,and maybe more there is to find, than love where is the golden rind, the surface of it's trove to wear, the fleecing of its glove to bare,
however strange this all may sound, I still in poems would abound, to love and all it's glory be, above the wall, the bornless mead.
©danjor
D