It is not so much of a mysterious poem, your love, no.
It is more like a way of infatuating, me.
Your love, on most cynical days and nights,
is like a virgin's first sight of snow.
Freezing temperature, a sane white rose, at the most.
Your caricature could **** a woman, you assortment
of beautiful things that the insane can only see.
When the smoke consumes your eyes,
you look so divine, my King.
*And it's your love that takes me by chance,
by the time it's dawn,
chance has met my match, darling.
And you proceed, to weep,
into my ears, are whispers
that tingle so romantically,
so intimately, and you proceed
to carelessly
call me
your*
Queen.
Sep 4, 2014
Sep 4, 2014 at 8:55 PM UTC
It is not so much of a mysterious poem, your love, no.
It is more like a way of infatuating, me.
Your love, on most cynical days and nights,
is like a virgin's first sight of snow.
Freezing temperature, a sane white rose, at the most.
Your caricature could **** a woman, you assortment
of beautiful things that the insane can only see.
When the smoke consumes your eyes,
you look so divine, my King.
*And it's your love that takes me by chance,
by the time it's dawn,
chance has met my match, darling.
And you proceed, to weep,
into my ears, are whispers
that tingle so romantically,
so intimately, and you proceed
to carelessly
call me
your*
Queen.
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