Harlot by Nicodemus
Drenched in fashions of solace.
O'er oceans of such pale passion burn.
What motives lay in her decisions?
Open eyes are clouds greyeth as skies turn.
With mine own weakness...being best acquainted.
How sweet thou shalt maketh my shame.
Fairest of angels, how drift I too thee.
Heaven hath played with mine heart.
His face such sweet survey of passion and grace.
Hallowed be his name I hark.
...and shall I cast towards his better judgement?
A smile which shall render him weak and here.
Seeping in from the ether, for her skin is thusly
stained.
e'er drowning eyes from whence sorrow was shed.
|
