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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Romance  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: April 26, 2016

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Submitted: April 26, 2016



She goes to my head
like a glass of high
class booze, Henry
said, invades my night,
and dreams to such
an extent that nothing,
is quite what it seems.

She touches my heart,
and mind so that I
walk my life, and day,
like one who's blind.

She moves me to
words I seldom use,
make poet of me that
words often fail or use
too ill, so that I can
feel but feel, but I
love her still.

She turns me inside
out, and outside in,
leads me to dark night,
and days like one one
minute a saint, next
one who moves to sin.

She brings tears to eyes
with both humour,
and scorn of words,
and deeds, she plucks
the organ of my heart
until it bursts or cause
to bleed, but still my
love I offer, my word,
and cause I plead,
wherever it may lead.

She goes to my head
as often to my heart,
as often I see her come
and go, I love her all
else is lost or found,
I love her good,
I love her sound.


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