Many contrive du-jour fêtes to make love look self-evident; whilst the taken hold hand's, making locution the regular, in letters they trade off into lusting hands.

Winsome cut-out caricature cards, sell fresh off the press, whilst lovers meet at bars; to await the next years
Valendine.

A holiday for only once in a darkly year, as the meanwhile divorce rates spike from cheaters, woman-beaters;
Amour's no longer of the creator, but made to be the abzere.

Mine jane, please do not fear, I know I mayest not hath much, but a soul and spirit; I connect to thine.

None inauthentic word's, or thoughts you'll find;

Only what I hath to give thee.

The indigenous necklet that grows around this neck, a buttoned up longsleeve, that holds mine back;
With a black vest that caresses mine chest- with a smile I hardly show
Because of mine soda stained, missing teeth in a mouth where
Poetry speaks of pain, yet where
Affection is created by mine tongue
That creates wonders and Shame.

I hath not much material thing's, though material is temporal; not fit for kings and queens.

As I hath thou, as thou dost me,
I hath not much mine jane; though
Thou dost hath the key.

The key that open's this beating
Heart for thee; wherein mine
Love is always seen, in the
Specks of thy eyes.

The more ourn love grows, it burns
As a wildfire, I hear the wedding bell's
Require; ourn calling in
The distance.

©lonesome poet's poetry
©Brandon nagley
©earl jane sardua nagley dedication ( Filipino rose)