Saturday, 30 May 2020


Tis for my soul, alone, to scent out yours, with no holds barred. Is it within the warmth amidst your bosom, on which I covet a noseful of? If I ensconced myself atop it and gave ear to your heartbeats' cradlesong, would your quintessence e'er cometh?

May the quest not come to naught, says dubiety, my sunless daimon. I have to see eye to eye with its derision. Now and again, this shall subsist on my mind only, bittered, and hampered. Oh cherubs, illume welkin! Confess up till when? How do I bring to pass this diurnal reverie?



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