Initialled here, a message lies.
Longing for you, my heart flies.
Orchestrations there at play,
Violin and piano softly sighs –
Elevates the spirit beyond what may.
Yearning for love, that never dies;
Om i say, metta i pray
Until such time as our demise.
All and any thing before my eyes,
In it i see your face as overlay.
Jolts me awake each morn’ i arise
And when i rest at end of day.
Sweet, delicious bramble fruit;
So wild, untameable and free,
Made from darkest red bubbles.
You give my heart troubles.
Alas you are no longer for me.
Your taste like treasure and loot;
Rich, succulent, quenching juice
Made from the nectar you bear,
A flavour so wonderfully rare.
Woe now i must pull you loose.
Staunch, resilient blackberry root;
Diving deep in the soil,
Spikes guarding above and under.
Now I work to tear you asunder,
A labour with which i toil.
After, the earth burnt as soot;
Tears turning all to mud,
A scene horrifyingly full of gore.
I am lost, broke, beaten and sore,
Hands raw with blood.
Everywhere i look,
All that i can see,
The time it has took,
Reminding always me,
Like a mental hook,
Haunting my memory,
Stuck in every nook,
Tragic number three.
Today i see spiders gliding on their silk strings.
One more thing that causes me to think of you.
Now i lie down to watch
The sunset – yellow, white and blue.
It’s tomorrow and i spy the flowers of broom,
Yet another thing reminding me of us.
Now i walk the path
The sky awash with aqua, slate and rust.
I am a beautiful person. The comments for your help. I have been.
The list. I will let us help. If I was just the thing to say about it and I will have the same.
I am not a good time. The only way I could have a good time.
The comments on the way to go to our General, but the page, and the Three days ago save money by you, and a few days ago. I will work with a bit of the Crown Estate, but I think I have to do it for the first place, and a few days ago.
now in this age,
we’re not rats in a race,
but chickens in a cage –
the reality to face
day by day by day.
so life is brisk,
and sounded by tick,
but counted by risk –
the path to pick
way by way by way.
A little light
for feeling slight
during day’s end
to make mend.
This pillow with a heartbeat,
even produces his own heat;
though everything he does eat
with a preference for meat,
yet is kind and sweet.
This rug with head and tail,
tethered like in a jail;
his escape is without fail
making the heart to sail,
setting his own trail.