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— By the Riverbank, Richard Edward Miller, 1910.
passing by the north heavy side
road that is no one to be hold
an bare white pedestrian east
while the grey clouds is pouring
sounds of cry from the sad sky
umbrella is lost, I don't need one
preferred to laugh then looked up
so precious to be hold while wailing
closing my eyes, adoring the tears
into my face and sudden crashing
wet mizzle like how you caressed
cheek burns as you said eight words
from the south your creme orb
tracing my fingertips way on you
crossed lips saccharine like us
him the best, always be my west.
