Being Poetry

I see your beautiful skin and I hand you an Irish knot necklace made of peuter. Your eyes are bright, and your soul wishes to dance in the night. No stranger to danger, we grab hands and walk to the river. I sit with you there and we share. Much is unknown and needs to stay that way. The sexuality needs to cease in all colonies, but especially for me outside of my new kin three. I am fatigued with all the hateful sentiments. I am not dirty, you are, but do I tell you that at all? Perfection in the trees brings YOU to your knees. The evil dead always stuck in my head. All objects can be made warlockery. Threatening sentiments and motions that aim to kill, mame, and humiliate. It is a sentiment of GAY that comes my way. Let us return. All is not well. HE is in vicinity and records, displeased.