"royle" poems
If you love me so. take hold of me
will be going deep in thine abyss
I peck thee soft with sweet velvet lips
settle in like monarchs
sitting in thine empirial chair
wherth slow wizard trods
just passed the golden gates
each there own pod
over the sunlit hill
with trumpets sounding shrills
sauntering in the reflective pond
his royle holiness
Jun 2, 2015
Jun 2, 2015 at 9:44 PM UTC