i

Sophisticated not as metal-steel mechanic's
Not a domestic to gargoyle theology
She's a seraph, who only knoweth pure.

ii

The Luna to her is her finer amare
The DNA of life passes through her hair
As she playeth truth and dare with her own self.

iii

She seeketh none help, a woman of God
Foresee's the hero's from slob's
As men around her mob, like a desert after dinner!

iv

Though sorry boy's she's mine
I claimed her long ago
When this palace was broken by lazor night show, I held her...

v

She's tender as a flower
Tis I waiteth for her throughout the hour's
The coward's do try her, to hurt her, yet I wilt never break someone so tender....



©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poets poetry
©Elsa angelica dedication