My darling, ten months does not a year make
as I lie supine, lamenting love’s fate,
my feelings of weakness as an empath
your strong aura--no incidental laugh.
Darling, veneration is growing cold
but not my idyllic love for you so
meet in the park by the weeping willow.
Theme #5 My Darling
17 is the Lucky Number - Rhyme Poetry Contest
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