Imagination controls me
Can’t stop long enough to see
But fleeting glimpses of reality
From deep within this fantasy.
From a rose springs forth prose
Not dwindling the other those
Which with we prep her afterlife
A 3rd Woman, but not wife.
A Martyr yes, to be sure
Gives of herself a love so pure
Her incense begins this wonder
Throwing reality asunder.
Imagination’s running wild
She being tended like a child
Served to meet all her needs
She will mature before she bleeds.
Facing fire and staunchly so
Her twisting tendrils up doth go
Yes I exalt in her embrace
For only the two of us share this place.
brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrump...bumpbump
a little bump for the ladies here.......