Young Writers Society

[center][/center] THE DEEDS OF LOVE ARE JUST BUT THIS OF WHICH IS LOVE.
Current mood: pessimistic
Category: Writing and Poetry

THE DEEDS OF LOVE ARE JUST BUT THIS OF WHICH IS LOVE.[/u]



Fright to morning's light

For there was light in the darkest night.

Sweet pain to mine heart and mind.

The night deceased perceiving,

The proceeding night revealing.

Yet again this night to reincarnate may.

May the sun deepest in sink.

Mine tender touch - more healing to be.

Every other part of thee - known to mine,

Every soft and sweet kisses on thee.

Lights right this upon,

Perfect crime would it be.

Witness prise couldn't bribe.

If I can I may,

Still can't on yours masters naked face.

Countenance of avenges and more revenge.

Numbered are mine days,

A corpse of living ours.

Oh dear love - dare not!

Care more not!

Not even yours grace,

Would plead guilty not.

Better I to flee,

My dug grave escape.

Our love to prolong.

You some other day to see,

In another rise or fall.

MMVII.
ADAN4 CREATION.