So many words wasted on love
So many again on hate
and like and crush its all the same
poetry wasted on "saints"
this poem shall not be like one
to tell of soft fair skin
blue green eyes
cunning smile
or a burning heart within
no no I should think better of it
than to bore the world with you
with your soft supple hands
and smooth willing tongue
that has tasted me through and through
no cease and decease with your pleading and wanting
of the world to know the angel I have found
I shant taunt them of a jewel of which they cannot have
it is better that I pretend you had never been found