Love Letter
A letter, my love, of our passion’s end
ever outpacing our critics’ reviews.
Arrows they have pessimistically penned
pierce imprints left by our fast running shoes.
Their thoughts in confounded pretzels ensnare
for they do not draw each breath from your sighs.
They have never lost themselves in your hair,
nor danced to the melody of your eyes.
Look at me! I’m rhyming! I’m rhyming!
Writing beautiful nonsense for you,
my dismembered thoughts in strict timing,
you always serve as my blushing muse.
‘melody of your eyes’ – what rotten cheese!
‘lost in your hair’ – what clichéd muck!
But I’ll form these coprolites when you please
For as long as they get me fucked.
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