Like an infant boy, every time going to check mine mailbox; none amour' letter's to cometh through. I beseech to getteth a note, a colorful card inside, one to maketh me smile openly, walking back to the abode obliged; I seeketh to open that little secret, behind the thin sliced paper, to smelleth the perfume of one's hair soaked into that little amare kindness........... O how I seeketh such a grapheme; tis all just a dream.........



©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poets poetry