I had to bring this one back again (with a few revisions)
Yea in tender times, life flings dirt,
throwing hurt on wounds, spitter bitter spat—
destroying the moment when hearts are in most leapbeats,
pitter pat.
Tenderlove is a
force, a thing unsatiated.
A lovelocket aflame, a heart so alive in wondrificous compluvication.
A welt, a wound cannot stop a warhearted wunderlovelocket in
love with everyone, under-time, allover, for everly-ever!
Such wunderdrug,
love is.
Tis like being drunk, tipsy in tenderlove alltimes.
A curious drug that sends one into curiotrances of lovers
dances.
What sort of thing
is this?
To be unafraid, to be unabashedly overbashed?
trapped in repa-tative groove rut
of underwhomping, overwelping thumpaweeping?
To be caught in
fishtangled lovemangled nets
of lovesuckers' hunters in an ocean,
once thought to be filled with noughtly more
than drops of
lovelockets heartseeping lifelops.
Curious enoughly,
the waters of loveseep-drops are filled
with such bloodbeat hungry sharks,
those fishers who hang their lovepiercing hooks in the water,
just waiting to mangle a lovebiter who can do nothing less
than leap at every chance to feed their loveful heart-hungry
enamoreyes
so entranced by loves filfuelfires,
who long to be held close to similar hot-hearts that seep endless
love to each others bloodlockets.
But I'm not
afraid!
No tearful fearfiller will steal my joyful wunderfillment
that such lovelockets as mine derive life from.
Such wonderplace things cannot be distinguished without lifejoints
failing.
No, we must meet death before we can part from such foolication as
wunderdrugging on tenderlove!
© copyright by Michèle Aimée Lahaie, 2012
