~
*Hear me, and heed my woe,
i tryeth to not bethink on Thee …
how thy smileth reaches
thy eyen and
crinkles the c'rn'rs
immensely.
Thy confidence, a flame
yond burneth with f'rvent might,
intimidating, yet draweth me in,
as moth to candle's lighteth.
Thy passion is contagious,
thy excitement a thrill,
i tryeth to not bethink on Thee …
but mem'ries ling'r still
i tryeth to not bethink on Thee …
as thee gazeth into mine own eyen
bef're our lips meeteth
our intimate moments,
a sensual rapture,
thy corse, a w'rk of art,
sculpt'd p'rfectly in all its
muscular stature
i tryeth to not bethink on Thee …
the way we w're,
young with a future,
we couldst not seeth.
What ifs and maybes,
a maze, i tryeth to escapeth,
longing f'r what couldst've been,
a heart yond acheth.
Ev'ry fare thee well,
a pang in mine own chest,
feareth of nev'r seeing thee again,
and all yond is repress'd
Thy absence, a weight
yond i doth striveth to shaketh,
wond'ring wh're thou art,
what thou dost maketh.
Art thou joyous, art thou free from careth?
i tryeth to not bethink on Thee …
yet some days, 'tis hard to beareth.
In sooth,
i am not depress'd,
n'r doth i feeleth the blues, wh'reupon
i f'rce myself to not bethink on Thee …
by mineth owneth shall, anon.*
~
Aug 30, 2025
Aug 30, 2025 at 9:29 AM UTC
~
*Hear me, and heed my woe,
i tryeth to not bethink on Thee …
how thy smileth reaches
thy eyen and
crinkles the c'rn'rs
immensely.
Thy confidence, a flame
yond burneth with f'rvent might,
intimidating, yet draweth me in,
as moth to candle's lighteth.
Thy passion is contagious,
thy excitement a thrill,
i tryeth to not bethink on Thee …
but mem'ries ling'r still
i tryeth to not bethink on Thee …
as thee gazeth into mine own eyen
bef're our lips meeteth
our intimate moments,
a sensual rapture,
thy corse, a w'rk of art,
sculpt'd p'rfectly in all its
muscular stature
i tryeth to not bethink on Thee …
the way we w're,
young with a future,
we couldst not seeth.
What ifs and maybes,
a maze, i tryeth to escapeth,
longing f'r what couldst've been,
a heart yond acheth.
Ev'ry fare thee well,
a pang in mine own chest,
feareth of nev'r seeing thee again,
and all yond is repress'd
Thy absence, a weight
yond i doth striveth to shaketh,
wond'ring wh're thou art,
what thou dost maketh.
Art thou joyous, art thou free from careth?
i tryeth to not bethink on Thee …
yet some days, 'tis hard to beareth.
In sooth,
i am not depress'd,
n'r doth i feeleth the blues, wh'reupon
i f'rce myself to not bethink on Thee …
by mineth owneth shall, anon.*
~
