By Sunder
O' forlorn is the partner of misery,
isolated and alone in fellowship and company
Until is the pulchritude so evident in your eyes
that the moments stopped to embrace
your gorgeous lips, a touch of grace
below the bosoms of golden chaste
Lesser eyes that strip her garments,
robe caressed her delicate skin
None anymore may ruin our amendment
of both sacrifices, to one akin
Further molesting of hair
from daunting the accurst care.
My touch has ever been insatiable,
half bosomed as she ran out of air.