Don’t. call me a poet for my words have yet to form . Don’t you call me a friend for my friendships art like the weather . Don’t call me kind as my kindness knows you best ,for the love in you’re eyes knows no rest .
For you’re thoughts are my ruin gin palaces of a decedent death . My ruin ? My ruin is to see you’re tears falling like rain drops , like thunder clouds in June .
Don’t call me you’re lover for our love cries out in the night , a cold venear of beauty and grace, where darkness finds no light .
Yet here we stand alone , together in June .
Oh Lincoln is flooded with you’re tears , and I’m put out by you’re fears .
Ballasts. have swept by you in open seas , Men held to you’re riggin , have been brought to their knees .
And when you said I love you I mounted my horse and Galloped away . Call me what you might , a King a prince a fool , but to love you forever knows no bounds , no words , no rules .