Now sadly I can’t yet write in iambs very brightly
I can only hope thee become trés pleased by this
I am not able of writing such masterpieces of poetry
Like Shakespeare, light crafts of beauty and Sorrow, fleur d’lys.

I solely can attempt to impress thy soul and being
By typing so eloquently, sadly believing you will ever feel
Such mill of emotion, sole construction of heart and thrill
For I be delighted to be lighting struck for witnessing

Such beauty.

The sly smoke lingering upon the room
The door open, enclosing the broom
Calmly I sat,  on my wooden  chair
Reading the newspaper, under the sun's glare

Yet the phone soundly rang
A catchy tune it's speakers sang
In my mind, who could it be?
In the end of the line, a stranger greets me.

And such reveals the mists of mystery
He demands me to stay awake
This uncalled feeling of stressful misery
Is far worst than I could take

The cloudless day is richer at its close;
A golden glory settles on the lea;
Soft, stealing shadows hint of cool repose
To mellowing landscape, and to calming sea.

And in that nobler, gentler, lovelier light,
The soul to sweeter, loftier bliss inclines;
Freed form the noonday glare, the favour'd sight
Increasing grace in earth and sky divines.

But ere the purest radiance crowns the green,
Or fairest lustre fills th' expectant grove,
The twilight thickens, and the fleeting scene
Leaves but a hallow'd memory of love!

And I could gaze upon your eyes
Yet chose to caress your legs instead
You shiver in joyful dread
but my touch tells you no lies

Warm skin, tender contact
firmly pressed and packed tight
flawless motion, bodies reenact
sweaty bliss, arousing light.