Written by Brenda Mox
He took the way over misty moors
Mild of features and verdant of hue.
Rapture, kept well in check by his pain
As hope bled down sorrow’s lane
When nowhere could he find lovely Ms. Lou.
It was not a vapor sunshine could disperse,
The fury with which she’d spat out her curse.
Oh, fathom strange depths of such distemper
Her dent of entreaties, expressed in dark whispers
Which later, tis doubtful, she’ll even remember.
A gush of pure pity overcomes his soft heart,
Forging fresh chains to his lovely young tart.
A mocking changeling, he’d known from the start,
Fairy born; human bred
And sharp like a dart.
Text © Brenda Mox
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