I shall miss seeing the moon when I've died in my bed.
With a mound of cold earth on top of my head
The soil keeps me warm as my past life doth dawn.
For tonight the moon wears a beautiful silver aura,
Her face bright white on this cold night.
I shall miss seeing the moon when I'm dead in my bed.
The moon a pure lady.
Good God, I adore her.
(c)LIVVI

Now November's uncovering
reveals slightly
embelished skin-tight holds
in pre-winter flirting
of untried ***** first kisses
from her bolder
more moisturised rosy-red
lips. November's call
nips boisterous early-morn
breath, cools
dawning, catches the depth
of petalled laggards
full with dry doze of surfeit
summering and
tho aslumber shows them
her potential,
November blows her own
wake-up call of
uncovered cold shoulder,
so essential to
lingerers, with a real zeal.
.