My ante meridian letter lies not,
It’s no fine print.
In it’s asperous periphery
Reigns my inhibitions aplenty.

Leaf through graciously,
Before the last fold of your eye lashes.
A moonlight tale for your umbra
Discard the pieces in the depths of your heart.

Words that angels die to sing,
As the quill sways effortlessly ‘tween my fingers
So did every tendon of my quintessence Chorale to sing,
Conducted by grey matter.

It was the memoirs in your smiles,
Dancing shadows from your melted voice
It was love,
A letter written past midnight.

– Smyekh David-West.


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