"unseasoned" poems
Growing up,
There was no "newest form of technology," no "stylish clothes," no "little puppy". Never a collection of Barbie dolls.
Realizing
She was surrounded,
a plastic society,
choicelss.
Simple figures. Thoughtless taste.
Molded forms.
Unseasoned cuisine.
Unrealistic ideas.
Unsalted frenchfries.
Styled hair, bright eyes, rosy cheeks.
Growing up normal,
No distinct collar bones, permanent bags, big feet.
Brainwashed
convinced of being un-proportional.
No first picks. No invitations. No turn at princess.
Whispers about "that girl"
Not listening, but hearing
every
word.
Lesson learned
Chained to the plastic society.
Barbie dolls as examples, imbalance of body image expressed.
No "styled hair," no "big eyes".
Chained; foolish concepts.
Attempting to escape the prison worse than death:
alienation.
Bring it on.
Darkest places, broken rules,
done being molded, through being fooled.
Always considered "that girl. Breaking free
from this brainwashed, plastic society.
Sep 6, 2015
Sep 6, 2015 at 10:16 PM UTC
for Karlotti
~
And a flower on the borders of winter.
an unseasoned sign that the singular erupting bud
will lend the lens to see, give the courage to accept
the greatest joy of man will ever be
anticipation
there will be seasons that the singular erupting bud,
be the bitterest truth nail gunned into your temple,
the perversity of a mockery, an uncrossable boundary
a flowering sign of skull & bones meant to teach acceptance
the greatest curse of man will be
the changing seasons
*La mayor maldición del hombre,
Las estaciones cambiantes*
May 7, 2017
May 7, 2017 at 8:36 AM UTC
i am a woman with pain built in.
lighting a candle each night & kneeling before Someone &
waiting &
waiting &
waiting.
removing a bloodied bandage & assessing the damage &
cleaning the wound &
cleaning the wound &
cleaning the wound.
washing down lamictal with stale chai tea &
lacing up my shoes &
lacing up my shoes &
lacing up my shoes.
warming unseasoned lentil soup & crying into the bowl––
i am a woman with pain built in,
ripping myself apart &
stitching the remnants back together
again &
again &
again.
Nov 16, 2022
Nov 16, 2022 at 8:34 PM UTC
~~
This is called a bed, a bier
All the faces who have
gathered in the windows have blurred
The lens is worn around
Still, I am going away from
the bottomless star
They have moved away from road
Sounds become smaller sighs
Anymore I do not see,
The yesterday's busiest bird
Alone in the silence,
The haze pine forest standing
It is a pleasure to wait for the bird
while close the eyes,
Springtime in the gray forest
My hand in her hand,
In the late afternoon's soft light
Strong wet black hair smell
All that is going
To move away from my sight
Pull together in the dark
The childhood, her hand, the drunk smell
Covered with a black screen
I'm going up from the CoT
Are mixed in the air,
moving clouds, rafting
unfamiliar tunes of fair, anywhere
At Times, Unseasoned, without any reason!
~~
@Musfiq us shaleheen
Dec 2, 2015
Dec 2, 2015 at 3:53 PM UTC
Jaded cyan
were the shadows that sat and shriveled
(as hollowing rings)
under those downward eyes
like mildly pressed flowers
in dusty old books
Radiant hues
captured blushing in mental photographs
of crossing fingers by a tender flowing stream
(from an untroubled spring)
where they harvested budding gemstones of light
from dancing fields of lavender beneath the mountain
Lavished mulberry
were the plum tree branches that crept
(as throbbing veins)
around those half-moon eyes
like hot blood trickling
under sun dazed skin
Emerald spirits
intertwined in a physical vineyard
of limbs they recklessly tangled
(from an unseasoned summer)
where they felt the stirrings of revolutionary ardor
from expanding train tracks behind the mountain
Dec 16, 2013
Dec 16, 2013 at 6:21 AM UTC
A voice inside keeps repeating,
You’ll never have this opportunity again.
Title or first line sets precedent.
Pride is my sin, even with low self-esteem.
I remember severe pain
sitting at table
with head collapsed
on folded arms.
God sat across table from me,
asking, “Who do you think you are?”
I froze, forgot how to talk.
When I looked up, the thought was gone.
I recognize pattern within myself,
where I fall prey
to someone who may or may not
take advantage of me.
I grow anxious, fearful, needing to be released.
In childhood, my younger sister ran to my side,
but years of therapy freed her of that job.
I still return to pattern, frantic, self-destructive,
worthless feeling, with no one to rescue, nurture me.
You may wonder about my allure to my ex
and other damaged women I’ve loved.
Now you know, I’m ********
Unseasoned, I scribbled, “If the peanut butter
isn’t streaked with jelly smears,
than you’re living too anal-retentive and proper a life.”
I realize my younger self wouldn’t like older self.
Enough about me, let’s talk about you.
What’s it like being a Siamese twin?
Are two heads really better than one?
When one of you finds a lover, what does the other do?
Do you look away? Close your eyes? Stare?
Who’s in charge of money?
Ok, I didn’t mean to get off on the wrong foot.
So you’re not actually a Siamese twin?
Seeing double is my problem, oh god.
Tonight my sister wrote,
“I begin to understand the mystery of life,
the moment unfolding, to harshness
and softness of just one moment,
so dear, to haunt you for desiring more.”
The moon tonight, thin sharp slice set on spine
in western sky. A miracle, that’s what I think.
You’ll never have this opportunity again.
Mar 28, 2013
Mar 28, 2013 at 3:06 PM UTC
~a unconscious commissioned poem~
<>
La Lumière est une Dame d'honneur
advantage Frenchies,
everything sounds
better in their language,
we readily concede
we make do
with those tongues
whose fluidity
clothes & coats,
those, we are
best at
confessing in
first light this morning
was emasculated, in thickened
first fog, eerie, discomforting,
but yet, mine alone to utilize,
and make discomfiture into
a poem of coffee and cream,
stirring within, colored dreams
Lady Light finally arrives,
descending on a staircase
from heaven, radiating all
with patience, the animals
all, proclaiming in a thousand
tongues, their thanks, their
love, for everything breathing
understand best she is the source
of creation, reanimation, and a
sharing, unsparing, birth mother
to animate and inanimate, and
the death father to all we & us,
guide to our ultimate end
the waiting is most interesting,
for indeed, there is honor within,
as I compose, the sunrises to the
precise angle to bar my vision,
power to blind and enlighten,
how can this be, but it is so,
my bones warmed, suggest I
do not complain, accepting with
no exception for this is the power
source to us all, and humility is
the key to acceptance & understanding
is this poem, is this the missive,
me~my, intended, to write,
know not,
for the words leech from my skin,
in format uncolored, uncontrolled
by mine minuscule impoverished
compost of senses, morals and my
compote of cells that are products
of a thousand prior generations
morphed into a mess of me,
as of yet, purpose hidden,
undisclosed, perhaps my
reasoning is unseasoned,
my presumption of purpose,
is just a fool’s ridiculousness
Lady Light smiles kindly on my
rambunctious ilreasoning,
for I just one of billions come,
gone, and rebirthed in chains
of endless possibilities, two
words permanently paired,
conjoined, and though the
light has now risen to heights
to totally absolve my sight,
can no longer track what
is being written, accepting my
temporally blindness with grace,
even with solace, and-bid you
adieu, adieu, (bye~bye)
so musically,
until relief will
honor me with its presents…
and I can contemplate my
foolishness once more…
and the letting…
of the
*Lady’s light
of
honor illuminating
(even me)*
<>
commissioned by Pradip
7:35 am
in the sunroom where
the intersection of all light
illuminates all kinds
<>
music:
To Try for the Sun, Song by Donovan
Aquarius/Let the Sunshine In by Fifth Dimesion
Aug 5, 2024
Aug 5, 2024 at 7:52 AM UTC
Steams rose from the red ***
Like angelic dancers
Dressed in gray and white,
Twirling,
And he silently stirred the red ***
Stirring with that silvery spoon,
Stirring slowly.
Finally she realized he, the devil,
Was stirring her pain,
Stirring her anger,
Just stirring her life
Into a bitter ***
And she became exhausted
In that heated red ***
That was filled with blazing anger,
Bitter herb, and battered emotions.
He silently stirred her like unseasoned meat
In a steaming ***
Until she lost her flavor.
Then she remembered to pray.
And faith rescued her from the heat,
Imprinting healing in her heart.
Now she is forever flavored with the love of God.
Copyright 2012
Destiny Diadem
Apr 24, 2013
Apr 24, 2013 at 10:17 PM UTC
Buoyant afterglow.
Earshot piano.
Empathetic sympathy.
Unseasoned hearth.
Bygone... Convivial.
Mar 30, 2014
Mar 30, 2014 at 11:02 AM UTC
The neighborhood murmurs,
In revival of pages turned over,
Watching time tick by,
Singing my despicable song,
With well versed notes,
I type this personal parable,
Here around unseasoned souls,
Swayed by words that remind,
Me of dried kisses and promises,
"Well" she said,
I knew what she said,
Which she never did,
"You're too good for me", she cried;
Like golden chimes in my temple rang,
With deafening echoes; tinkling they sang,
And a lifetime later,
"Well" sighed I, "my problem child" smiled I;
I died inside that night, yes did I
Many came and then left;
Dancing in stance; scouring romance,
Amidst fire burnin through the night,
I hate to admit I too now have joined the dance!!
Well the sun still shines quite bright alright,
Its me within no more, although, in delight;
Hailing showers of sandstones,
In them I'm drenched,
But when I'd bleed all away,
I'll drench no more,
And if I've drenched all away,
I'll love no more!!
Jul 16, 2012
Jul 16, 2012 at 9:59 PM UTC
***** our fingers, we do. on the porcelain and the rampions.
we are twisted into crapes, the shape of which
are halcyon, though we refrain from them.
We are ' something else '.
the salad is the farce and the painting; yes !
the gruel and the cinders in the mock turtle soup
of our living quince and the meddling
of our every-ness.
clink our eyelids. we do. on the lamp-stand in the Hampton's
we are gifted and innate. the grey twitch
accounts for them bones we contain from sin.
We are " something felt "
the ballad is the Art and the Nothing;
yes ...
the cruel, is the mender, in our lost little group
of unseasoned heckling and
our Winter's
truth,
and absinthe.
But there's Something Else.
and Nothing
Less....
than Atlas.
Apr 23, 2015
Apr 23, 2015 at 8:41 PM UTC
Should you know everything from start to end
Would you change a thing?
I would rather not.
Not even Choose to know
That where to reach
So there to go
Whom to meet
Whether say yes or no
I just don't even wish to know
That where to search
And what to find
That what will hurt
And who ll be kind
Isn't that what we do
build that wall Of certainity
Wall of our dreams
Of that promised secured future
Organising everything random
Offered by the universe
So that
Not even for a moment we go off track
Into the unknown
So that none ventures in and surprise you
Changing things so that
We don't have to change it later
And then what
Lay staring
Nothing but those walls
Your walls
Made of those work-hours
Decisions, regrets , memories
Walls so high and strong
Now you can't see beyond em
Let alone walk past it
I won't mind losing
For my mistakes
The pain, the chill, the burn
Heartbreaks under scorching sun
Let me be swept by cold winds of doubts
Drenched in the rain from clouds of fear
Not under the safe concrete of wealth
Unseasoned and a mortal mere
I would rather choose
To be lost
As I am
As are most
And won't even try to find my way
No quest to solve
Nothing to resolve
Just you and me
Walking all the roads
Stopping where we feel
And staring at the sky
Counting stars as if we can
Everyday afresh and start anew
You with me and I with you
And
You love me and I love you
Dec 18, 2016
Dec 18, 2016 at 6:11 AM UTC
My ****** heart runs deep
Pulsating rivers in my veins
that once nourished me before you came
and soaked up every drop
with nothing left to reap
while the flak of your memory still remains.
The day we met,
Temperate winds cradled leaves fresh from their vines,
unseasoned by nature’s trials.
Today,
they lie crumbled among debris
broken wilted pieces in scattered piles.
Carefree days that had no price
Oh how you yearned to woe me
Companion nights; they did suffice
Until troubled longing riled the sea
Did you sense the suspense?
Naked under the burrow
Of sullen sheets enveloped in scents,
stale and past
You: my daring knight of chivalry
Whose promise did not last
and so the wind said unto thee,
“set me free.”
Morning tastes dewy tears trickling into memories we hoped to never speak again
Shifting through the seasons
the beginning of the end
I willed my seeds to grow through the disdained soil they’ve rooted in.
Leaving them grimy rot staked in solace
Feelings left dead sprout a calm that quickly frames trust
What purpose serves a creation left abandoned in the dust?
Hear it. Speak it. See it as it comes.
In dreams they lay tiles under trodden feet.
Steps that cannot be taken up again
and so commends your defeat.
One day, in autumn or is it spring?
The anxious blossoms danced away in the wind.
You swept them up with swinging arms
Urging every pedal to descend
From weeping barren trees foiled from your charm
Words back then took form in a man
Working a path inside a woman’s heart
Mapping her wishes into works of art
Now lie down upon this mold
of every simple broken thing you ever tried to fix
It isn’t worth the truth you sold
To quell your nature with docility that shields arrogance with bricks.
When you returned sullied by days of wandering
Through decay and rotten secrets
I laid my head to rest in the crook of your neck
Sheltered by my need, unseen by your gaze
This moment of clarity, I locked inside my ****** heart
where it will rot and die through the passing days.
Jan 16, 2011
Jan 16, 2011 at 6:21 PM UTC
It is Time to Sing the Blues
It is time to sing the blues
She whispered softly to the crowd
She with her eyes lowered to where her heart rest
Like the beige suit jacket hugging the backs of chairs
Chairs supporting the weight of jazz thirsty,
Trumpet eating, bass thumping, drum beating men,
Hungry for the texture of her caramel, brown skin, the tone of her
thighs under those two inches past high
sequined blue dress, Her deep hazeled eyes
blended in with the stage she stood,
back tangled and
bruised with darkened grey hues
her eyes were a mysterious
grin,
reflecting red tints of lights,
Dim,
Wrapped around the notes,
melodious harmonies
trapped within from the
Crown of her head
Right to the nail of her toes
She stands… waiting
It is time to sing the blues
She whispered softly to the crowd
Red velvet hats emancipated themselves
from the tops of the women’s head
They relaxed their spirits
their essence illuminates
her reflecting presence
Welcoming tides of high n pitched heavens
that they too would accept into their
emotional crevices
Her voice illustrated the beauty
Of their broken arts
They are freed from the
Restrictions and inhibitions
To be unseasoned
within their broken start
The chorus line, erupted from her soul
Trumpets blaring quietly, smooth rouges like wine
Every note found refuge in their glasses
they drank
The healing powers of her cries
The trombone emulated her growl
As she neared the ending of her solemn tune
She,
liberating these women and men
It was time to sing their blues
May 23, 2010
May 23, 2010 at 12:59 PM UTC
oh expired chicken
you never tasted right
to begin with
shredded and unseasoned
marred by hints of skin
and cartilage
you were too embarrassing to share
and too expensive to discard
oh expired chicken
the aftermath of underestimating how much
is in each pound
and overestimating how much I eat
a shopping mistake made
after being a parasite to school cafeterias
and my mother's cooking
for eight months
oh expired chicken
throwing you away was harder
than cutting off an ex-lover
my heart yearns for what you could have been
(tasty food in my stomach)
even though you were never enough
you would make an indomitable enemy
an atrocious friend
and the worst boyfriend ever
we would have a toxic and trying relationship
but that is for another poem
Jan 25, 2019
Jan 25, 2019 at 8:58 PM UTC
A green, unseasoned ox
Was put unto the plow
A yoke was placed upon it
To work the master's rows
It balked at the job given
For it did not know how.
The master saw it's plight
He knew it had to learn
So he brought a great and seasoned ox
And a double yoke was worn
They both pulled a wagon
Filled from stem to stern.
The master tapped them with the reins
They both began to pull
The new and yet unknowing ox
Got it in its skull
To go a path that was unsafe
It's wits were yet quite dull.
So it balked again and cried
To go the other way
But the great and seasoned ox
Stood there in the fray
He allowed the younger ox
To buck and buck all day.
So finally the younger ox
Was tired, began to wheeze
It knew it was defeated
It's pride was finally seized
It bowed down in humility
And fell onto its knees.
The ox cried bitterly
In its enormous shame
The other ox was greatly moved
For its weeping out HIS NAME
He nuzzled it & stroked it
For HE was once the same.
The master, too, came off his seat
And succored the poor beast
He gave it food and water
Held it to his breast
The greater ox lay down with it
So that it could rest.
The young ox finally rallied
Was ready for the fight
Of pulling the great burden...
... but found that it was light!
For the greater ox was pulling, too
He stout and he forthright!
The master smiled proudly
The young ox would reach the goal...
And what WAS this great burden?
**Billions of HUMAN SOULS.**..
SoulSurvivor
(C)1/28/2017
***"Come to me, all you who are weary
and burdened, and I will give you rest.
Take my yoke upon you and learn from
me, for I am gentle and humble in heart,
and you will find rest for your souls.
For my yoke is easy,
and my burden is light."**
Matthew 11:28-30 NIV*
Jan 28, 2017
Jan 28, 2017 at 4:27 PM UTC
Young darling, you've emerged.
Innocence has abandoned you like a old-time lover.
Sweet girl, the remodeling of your soul is finally in progress.
I know you see it. I could hear your heart banging on the doors to be set free.
Little doll, be afraid.
This world is not what you glimpsed on the magic box.
Development is creeping in like a friendly bandit.
Gentle babe, it's time to add your revolution to history.
For your modification draweth closer.
Youngster, potential is your new spring of encouragement.
Refinement...your vision.
Isolated infant, don't move! Take off your chasity and give it to me now!
Blindly robbed, give me your virtue, open your hands and I'll fill it with the wonder of responsibility.
New time bloomer, welcome.
I honestly feel a great deal of sorrow for you.
You're not alone though. We're all chained to this thing called, change.
Yes change, our old friend, better known as constant.
I know I'm forcing a remodel, but you have no choice in this...we have no choice in this.
Oh my unseasoned meat, I feel it for you. This, this evolutionary transformation.
Enhanced by growth I'll leave you unrecognizable.
Charming child, this inevitable happen is going to kidnap your once free spirit, and lock it in a cage. Never more to be set free.
My sweet joyous juvenile, your obsession with smiles is going to cease. As I slowly decease you urge to run.
The bus is passing, so go stand in the middle.
You'll survive, but only by my tools.
First, trade, then transition, followed by adaption, up next you'll adjust. Add some innovation in there. To conclude your finishing touches will be your revised version.
Good luck, you'll need it. I know I did.
~Gabbriella with 2 b's~
Apr 8, 2018
Apr 8, 2018 at 8:29 AM UTC
lust is just love that dies
we tend to want things that flood our eyes
our hurt is just a price we pay
looking at the moon and wishing for day
in an abyss of sweet nothings we fall deep
sacrificing oxygen and sleep
for a mere glimpse of what love could be
things aren't so tender when they end
just bitter unseasoned and bland
a heap of limbs at war with each other
lost souls looking to discover
searching for love and a source of heat
the vicious cycle of hatred and deceit
turmoil boils and wrath will grow
but the fire extinguished long ago
when the mind realizes it's been famished
not a soul in the world cared to scan it
of feelings or memories or wants
or opinions or strengths or thoughts
the enemy, loneliness, born
from lack of someone to adorn
a naive love disguised as scorn
from its battered scalp grow horns
an angel in disguise it became
call it cold.. frigid.. inane..
fallen angel beseech the stars above
for the slightest symbol of love
and to no avail, no answer
her kisses could create no dammer
she dared not bind to another
for the sake of being smothered
with false ardor and affection
her ice as her protection
to shield her ***** from the swelter
that asked of no one near to help her
the delusive words of many have tried
the only thing saving her was her spirit that died
this barrier tall, affirmative with action
hurt anyone near it with ample satisfaction
Feb 17, 2015
Feb 17, 2015 at 4:28 PM UTC
Driving, driving, driving
My unseasoned eyes had never caught a glimpse of nature's harvest
dividing people to such an extent
My eyes touring the scenic avenue
They had never witnessed the leaves loot the sun of its hue
It seemed almost artificial
My eyes distort the landscape into frayed fantasies
And my mind proceeds to peruse the memories like a magazine
I see you
I wave hi
Until your presence flickers
And we
disconnect
Oct 9, 2017
Oct 9, 2017 at 8:31 PM UTC
The Autumn air always grew stale
Until unseasoned bloom
Pluck the last leaf from the tree
Just as my new plants hue
Were sun shone locks of you
Nov 4, 2013
Nov 4, 2013 at 3:39 AM UTC
the first time i tried this,
the page was scattered with
poorly doodled stars
for thoughts i could just
barely fathom in my mind.
a new plot for every thought
that crossed my consciousness
until the paper brimmed with
points that i couldn’t connect
one another to. but you of
all people should understand
that constellations are hard
to create.
how long did it take to find
the perfect combination of
twenty six letters that feel
like silk between my teeth
as i read the text out loud?
how many times did you lull
over each word with thesaurus
to your right, making sure
each word was caramelized
to perfection? watching carefully
for the perfect shades
of amber and rust.
the sweetness of the sunshine
yellow you feed us for hope,
and the dark rich mahogany
that turned bitter everything
that was ever sweet.
when we went looking for
the great land we found
nothing but white tulips
like an apology for not
being something greater
because life is filled with
nothing more than love,
death, adventure and a little
something in between.
and i never knew how love
even worked because
from the outside looking in
it is like the impact of
a truck coming at full speed.
it was going to happen
and it happened, there’s no
in between when honestly
nothing compares to it better
than the hardships of falling
asleep ( though the task proves
harder for insomniacs ).
from the inside you only know
only that it has happened because
love is an unseasoned thing
with a sweet aftertaste.
but this is just a side effect.
this is just the ying to the yang.
i grew up knowing too well that
everything had it’s advocate.
because time’s a **** and she
doesn’t wait on anyone, closing
the gates for anyone who
didn’t have enough to pay
the price to live in the numbered
days. But as days drag on
we find infinities within
our numbered days, the antipode
of time we call hope.
I never knew much about
the world until I started reading
almost forgetting that stories
aren't always about heroes
but people who wish no more
than to seek a great perhaps.
Apr 13, 2014
Apr 13, 2014 at 4:51 AM UTC
the Truth
its with kind regards
that you've been asked to avail yourself
excuse yourself
from our crying festivals and internal ridicules of should-have's,
to make an honest revelation of yourself.
i'd understand if you've gotten lost along the way
or forgotten the directions;
its been a while since your presence was requested
its just that right now
i’d really appreciate your attendance to the vulnerability.
i know you’ve noticed
i’ve conversed with tribes opposite to you long enough
i’ve testified against your whispers.
yes, its done nothing
but heighten my complexities and insecurities,
and disrupt my rhythm.
the rhythm I thought I could dance to on my own
without you taking the lead
or setting the record straight.
i’m sorry:
the times I stood you up
the unwanted plus one’s
the cancelled reservations,
but know that this one here
is just you and i
a table for two
and a serving of unseasoned confessions.
let me know when you can make it. . .
Dec 1, 2017
Dec 1, 2017 at 7:41 PM UTC
My spirit is unseasoned.
My body is an unwashed, used ,dark clay *** Stars all over my world are enriched with insecurities, self hate, body shaming.
The dark cracks on my lower lip manipulate my mind. They liquidate and rush through the core of my imperfections.
Forming a mouth piece of total surrender that manifests and speaks the language of the broken.
My dignity is amputated and walks on its arms. My legs are nowhere close to perfection.
Mirror mirror on the wall is praised to be the fortune teller of beauty.
My dear skin is cracked and has become a feeding scheme of maggots and vultures.
The body of a young goddess needs awakening.
Rush dear honey and bathe me in a tub of nurture. Scrub all insecurities and soothe my soul with a bowl of gold praise.
Pour your offsprings onto the mirror.
Marinate my skin with love and joy. Entice my mind , Pierce through my longing skin and rebirth my veins.
Rush honey ,rush.
Nov 14, 2018
Nov 14, 2018 at 2:57 PM UTC
Studiously learning what’s in the Mazatlán,
They caught each other’s eye as she sat in a corner booth,
The gleam he saw aglow there, he began to dwell upon,
The radiance of her countenance was akin to light and truth
He joked and mugged and walked a wire,
She gestured, and, the flames grew higher,
She told him of her man betrothed,
He shuddered but appeared unmoved.
But growing way down, deep inside him,
There welled a thirst, so powerfully pure,
He tried to bury it, to push it down,
But drawing him, pulling him, her enticing allure,
They stood calf-deep near Ontario’s shore
The moon smiled down and charged their glow
She’d lower her eyes and his heart would soar
That moon knew things that she didn’t know
For he whispered to the moon his heart’s desire
That this fair maiden would one day be his,
And the mother of the fates was summoned by wire
And soon, on the island, it was sealed with a kiss!
And she changed her destiny and his heart leapt for joy!
She could not have known how happy she made him;
There were fireworks and magic for that unseasoned boy
He was glad his thirsty thoughts had betrayed him
Fast forward five years, to a kneeler on the altar
A bond was forged there - which never will falter
And darling new creatures now fill their book
And he is even more smitten than at that first look
Feb 14, 2017
Feb 14, 2017 at 11:27 PM UTC