#her-hurt-is-mine-hurt
i
Her cotton swab bolster
Marinateth her midnight sweat's;
She titter's thus from woe
Though I seeith when her heart burst showeth.
Dejection corset.
ii
Epistle's art stacked up in her thought's
Of what she should writeth tommorrow;
Grief stricken, by none restful sleeping
Awaking for school,
Another day bottled.
iii
Her way's art of God
He's her truest guidance;
She giveth truth
Sweetful tooth
A fruit of whom I shalt liveth.
iv
Death she's tasted, as Dom Pérignon
Her word's, as the wine she speaketh;
Her back hurt's, her love's at work
She telleth star's, from whence their birthed
As tis she's a faraway light as well.
v
She's seen Gehenna, she's been trapped in cell's
She's seen misery, and heaven and hell
Though when I'm close, she heareth Bell's
She raiseth a toast, when I'm in her realm
A queen, a rose, a bud bloomed, sadly, she wanders her room.
©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
© あある じぇえん
Aug 7, 2015
Aug 7, 2015 at 3:40 PM UTC