Of all the strangeness in Love's Lands,
That I should wither at your hands
My flowers die, and my gardens fade
In all the hours of love we made...
In all the hours we had in bed,
That I should view those times with dread
Those acts of Love you would not do
Oh, perish the thought of me and you!
When all that's left is the bliss of long ago
In another's arms, then now is Woe
And far removed from his vast Delight
I think of him in the dead of Night.
©1999 Harmony F. Kieding
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