Poems Or What Happens When I Can't Think In Prose: My Beloved Is Home

Thursday, October 7, 2004

My Beloved Is Home

that old familiar scent burnt wood in a dew caressed morn wafted through my nostrils waking me up from my noonday slumber that old familiar call a voice I've heard these so many years giving me delight each time I hear my name if I could speak I would have said: "Here I am, my beloved!" But I am... Sign in to see full entry.

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