I can't say I was big on the rhymes...
Woe is me to know the longing for that which I hold most dear -
To suffer the long hours of the day, thinking of his kiss,
And slumber the night alone, dreaming of his tender embrace.
I grow impatient anticipating those most precious of days
On which to lounge lazily, wrapped in my lover's arms,
When time knows no acquiescence to the world outside our door -
And the burdens of a thousand men are lifted from my soul.



How about pretentious? Everything I ever wrote seems pretentious! Like... I should be smoking Gauloises and sneering at people...
(Ecclesia, Mon 15 Aug 2005, 6:01, Reply)