She was often a maddened tempest,
raging the earth with sweet promise
of it being loved and utterly blessed
when her sky would finally ease
to the plea of my yesteryears,
rubbled with the length of our present;
Yet blurred upon our forlorn tears,
flooding our once drying lament
for the moments that slept,
and now the moonsets we caress;
in a perchance, the passion swept
the spaces as we grow less and less
closer from the seething wonder,
and she was the whisper of a dream,
while true today, later would ponder
how little hours we had to make seem.
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