In poetry
In plays
In art
Love is often confessed
And dear love
It is often grand
Music
Violins
And star scapes
And I Wish
I long
That I could confess
That I wanted
That I loved
You
Like that
But I don’t
I am not
Not like
The hundreds
The hundreds before me
Slaves to your idoltry
I love you
As I began
Inside
My deepest
Deep
Dark
The raw
Exposed
Pulsing
Nerve
This deep
Six desire
For you
Would
Kill me
Kill you
With it’s ache
So though
Your myriad golden beauties
Deserve flowers
I want you
I love
You
Like a secret
Nurtured
Inside the dark forests
Of my pain
There I can cry
Tears
Of loss
Because Golden You
And dark me
Is
Never be
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