love is a losing game,
and him a martyr.
As he climbs his way up to her lonesome window.
Sharpest thorns picks his skin while he's pushing further.
Roses spread on the odor, her chamber as a meadow.
looking up at her eyes, sparkling soft and groovy.
He's deadly curious if this slightly diabolic.
But expression of blue of her eyeballs sadder,
so she's never wicked but just melancholic.
antiquus amor cancer est
© Copyright: Неттер Линг, 2023
Свидетельство о публикации №123022508374
Свидетельство о публикации №123022508374
Рецензии