May
The May is in his name- not really,
but he's similar to season Spring.
All the flowers do bow to his cheek-
brushed with the blushes of pink.
The rain will fall in echoe not to his eye,
but the pain of dreary felt deep inside.
But sure-he smiles a ray of sunshine like the sky.
He fills the air with all the warmth
from torture's bitter frost.
And he is beautiful- just like May.
And I was born to admire and love
of those who remind me of Spring.
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