The morning dew conquers the night mist, my avendaged and broken siern peirces my hope, I call out yet my protective angel is distant and obscure.
I am left to her fickle whims and mocking laughter. I conferred my naked and inpassionated soul unto the sacrosanct of her april scented bossom, but her release of me left it inbittered and lost.
I handed her my heart fueled with the courage of 1000 martyrs, but reclaimed it dry as the desert sand on an August day.
I have overcome my wound although it is deep it no longer holds any power over me. Where she is to this day I know not, I worry not.
But as the morning wind brushes the trees I hear anguish. Alas, she has attended to the fools lined at her threshold. Those naifs awaiting a mere glimpse, of her deep soft emerald eyes.
-Johnny V.
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