The Sight of the Angel
From the shadows of the old tree,
she emerges, her form unlike any
I have seen, her eyes would shame
the twinkles of a thousand stars,
as the rays of purity doth my sins.
''Has thee not sinned enough? for I,
lie here with thy face etched in my soul''.
Her cascading hair, not could the
magical yarns of the Gods bear.
My yearning soul looks upon thee
eyes for a poesy that will
never be written, a feeble flicker
dawns, for thou art be not mere love,
thou art a passion, by which I lay smitten.
The wilt'd roots flourish as the beauty
overwhelms, hath she come from God's realms....
'tis not mine, to angst about,
but dear lord, canst thou
have mercy upon a poor soul,
grant a wish that plagues
the very nature of me?
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