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In the dead, dreary day,
My souls at last can weep.
For when the sun comes up,
I am drowning in its deep.

How dare it try and pretend,
That it's a godsend.
When I can clearly see,
The pain it's done to me.

But alast, I cannot tear myself away,
For never have I felt this way.
Always will it be forgiven,
Because of my longing for the forbidden.

At night I see this sun the most,
It a loving memory and my heart it's host.
For in my dreams a past treasure lies,
Shining out, clear to my eyes.

This sun I speak of not a sun at all,
It merely being the cause of my fall.
With halted breath he saw her there
He didn’t mean to stop & stare
But such beauty, demure & sweet
Caused the heart to miss a beat
Pulse was racing, blood was heating
Wondered how to affect a meeting

Should it be a cheesy line
A bunch of flowers - a glass of wine
He approached her - his mind a quiver
Felt his body start to shiver
His stomach now, begins to flutter
Then he really starts to stutter

Excuse me miss, - he began like this
But soon his voice became a hiss
Carry on, - his brain did urge him
Then at once his courage failed him
Excuse me miss he uttered again
The moment had gone…..this was plain

So young sirs when you go wooing
You really have to practice cooing
Nothing comes to the faint of heart
You really have to act the part
If you wish, to sweep off her feet
A nice young lady demure & sweet.
I let you get the best of me
pride is gone
soberity lost
you changed all
you changed me
And you don't even know

It's your eyes
always the eyes
the eyes of a cat
calculating, thinking
a window to your soul
with the curtains closed

It's your smile
the one they say no one sees
you hide it away
but share it with me

It's your voice
rarely heard
a talking cello
kept under lock and key
working in silence

You have changed my life
this last summer
these last chances
to feel your eyes
to see your smile
to hear your voice
because you've changed me
and you'll never know
It is not the bumblebee, that goes
unloved or unprivileged.
It is the sad circumstances of of his flower brethren
That congests his mind with remnants of
Regret and despair,
Brought on by a chain reaction of
Sympathy and compassion.
Do the flowers comprehend
The plight of the humble bumblebee?
He who flies in his aura of sincere concern,
For those who he calls friends.
Certainly not,
For they question the pain his eyes have seen,
But certainly not
From which it originates.

— The End —