The pale moon can be invasive at times, lighting up my tiny room, to almost a dim freshness of sunshine echoing through. I think, of love who has passed me by, except the silver love and this lunar sky. We share so many nights, why not, and evenings, too, we are together, espoused we two.

My silver love, a stately profile of Campanian blood, mixed with a splash of Penobscot, too, indulges her counterpart, Welsh invader, oh dear, was how she referred to me, I simply cannot think out loud, but upon this virgin page of white, I think of her always baring down upon me, each night.

“My yoke is easy, my burden is light” she tells me from day to day, as a goddess, or wise woman, healer, and homeopath, I would say. Silver love’s counsel expedient with cure, her heart as a tiny finch, pounding rapidly, as if bound from the crown, of a tree. Gathering words of comfort to heal my poor soul, made me a man, a man in whole.

As a child, I expected naught, from the ladies three, who teased me, relentlessly; I grew to a man in fear of their figures so curved, full breasts and full hips, full lips, hair to the knees. I was molested you see. Sixty-years past, the pain all but gone (if you can believe all that), ne’er even confessed a wrong.

As evening does come, the moon and stars show the lamps they are, hanging from Orion, as hanging baskets of flowers, dipping from the facia on the little red bricked house, now, that is ours. I love her as splendidly as the moon shines, and see my love in the nude, her charms secretly create a smile in my heart, our love is nourishment as spiritual food.

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