×××
Dead o' night seems placid - omitting
for the one with acid - help
the injured soul, for it cannot
be kempt while 'tis sole.
Still thou fudgel,
but must not use thy cudgel.
If thy heart is thine,
my heart shan't be thine.
Come, let me clutch thee, for
heads not hang from thy tree.
Ye whom art lanspresados
miss out on squandering groats.
Go and touch throat; off by nilly!
For thou doth go desultory - what
joy she holds by spot of her throat,
for she whom pretends to flounder
and clutches at the founder
so he whom spend a groat.
×××
YOU ARE READING
.•«⟨ᴘᴏᴇᴛʀʏ⟩»•.
PuisiWelcome! Do you like poetry? Here, I've composed many poems that I believe are capable of being to your interest. Thank you for reading these all and always expect more!
