"happinesses" poems - Hello Poetry

Aye, Vladimir, just before I met thee I hath been sure I hath loved him- no matter as queer as it may hath seemed! Thou knowest not, how much tears I hath shredded and noticest not, how t'eir vanity made me look dead! But why-why then didst thou appear- and wokest within me t'is secret fear- with understanding in thy eyes, and with a love t'at is to me so dear. Why-why t'en thou left me, left me again! Whenst I got to knowest thou but for a moment, ah, with not so much of an endearment- afforded ourselves only t'at streak of lovely, but still weak of too a bond, or any pact, of young novelty. And everything was corrupt As soon as thou re-released me into t'ese qualms of insincerity wherest I am still tossed about, guilty. And hushed, hushed always, like a trivial, parallel wind! As though my dear heart's bathed in sin and of a soul t'at is so thin So worthy not of thy soulfulness and sweet dreams of many happinesses. Ah, Vladimir! If only thou could knowest T'is thread of passion thou hath sowed and how my entirety seekest being loved By thee, and only by thee, o my rain! As thou art but king to my sneaky moon and my very own kingdom of stars Not him-not him, o t'is I entreat, albeit his wits hath been but to me so sweet. Still he be a mistake, ah, a chilly autumn mistake to me, from whom I didst just turn awake. Probably thou would hath loved me; imperishably and blindingly, until all thy superb charms and wit t'at wert but tortured and unbending shalt be left within me lit; and thus leaving our fiery souls entwined with winds t'at art even sweeter yet might be torturously everlasting. Vladimir, Vladimir, oh my only Vladimir! Thou altogether belongst with me; here, so unjustly yet heavenly And in our hands is cherished our love, o, so wickedly-but fatefully! How I longst to be thy lover, dearest- and be so comely as thy only flower; which ripens thickly in thy winter and blooms robustly, in thy summer.

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Mar 20, 2013

Mar 20, 2013 at 7:07 AM UTC

stephanie-cynthia

Guilt

Aye, Vladimir, just before I met thee I hath been sure I hath loved him- no matter as queer as it may hath seemed! Thou knowest not, how much tears I hath shredded and noticest not, how t'eir vanity made me look dead! But why-why then didst thou appear- and wokest within me t'is secret fear- with understanding in thy eyes, and with a love t'at is to me so dear. Why-why t'en thou left me, left me again! Whenst I got to knowest thou but for a moment, ah, with not so much of an endearment- afforded ourselves only t'at streak of lovely, but still weak of too a bond, or any pact, of young novelty. And everything was corrupt As soon as thou re-released me into t'ese qualms of insincerity wherest I am still tossed about, guilty. And hushed, hushed always, like a trivial, parallel wind! As though my dear heart's bathed in sin and of a soul t'at is so thin So worthy not of thy soulfulness and sweet dreams of many happinesses. Ah, Vladimir! If only thou could knowest T'is thread of passion thou hath sowed and how my entirety seekest being loved By thee, and only by thee, o my rain! As thou art but king to my sneaky moon and my very own kingdom of stars Not him-not him, o t'is I entreat, albeit his wits hath been but to me so sweet. Still he be a mistake, ah, a chilly autumn mistake to me, from whom I didst just turn awake. Probably thou would hath loved me; imperishably and blindingly, until all thy superb charms and wit t'at wert but tortured and unbending shalt be left within me lit; and thus leaving our fiery souls entwined with winds t'at art even sweeter yet might be torturously everlasting. Vladimir, Vladimir, oh my only Vladimir! Thou altogether belongst with me; here, so unjustly yet heavenly And in our hands is cherished our love, o, so wickedly-but fatefully! How I longst to be thy lover, dearest- and be so comely as thy only flower; which ripens thickly in thy winter and blooms robustly, in thy summer.