Devon
Crisp winter red rose; moistened by snowflake;
The frosted grass on a winter morning;
A moonlit sky with sweet stars adorning;
And Autumn trees, held alive by the rake.
Two sweet, old lovers, sat on a park bench;
Sat hand in hand for sixty-something years;
Loving still, through heartbreak; turmoil and tears;
The sorrow never weakening that clench.
The words on a page, winding and weaving;
Attacking our minds and breaking our hearts;
Molesting our senses like sharpened darts;
And disproving "seeing is believing".
Though none of these are aware of their bliss;
Nor have knowledge why they are beautiful;
Just like you they make me feel dutiful;
To hold and to love; to kiss and to miss.
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