Email Poem

Your IP Address: 3.149.24.115
Your Email Address:
To Email Address:
Subject
Personal Note:
Poem Title:
Poem
"Blame it on the rain", for business 
on your sunny day, 
though it is a provider for you, 
you provide a poo poo.
World, obstain or remains In your dusty bowl, 
she be more precious than gold 
and the price must be paid- as payment due- 
of diamonds true for ungrateful fools. 
Gladness must be dew- 
likened to sunny days, may seem so bright and clear,
the rain's gentle kiss, is a soothing veneer.
Keeps hydration to the maximus,
at her station of holding the trust
containing the dusts in gatling bomb tears.
Wash away staleness of time,
gives life to thirsty orphan seedlings, seeds a new beginning in a flourished brine.
Cascading effect affectionately,
is her embrace 
is a lofty kind, the world is reborn, 
to new heights in kind.

You are a heavenly sight not to be scorned, a site adorned with the ability to forecast chance of survival.
Our emotions glued to your soap of 
broken necklace- of sky,
Thunderbird arrival.
With great wings span of expanse bridal gown/drown of tears renewed, our calming trance, eyes 
of a past cycle look to return of circumstance.
Gaia's daughterlings, eggs of Life's Circle brings
waters breaking slight of bands, relieving stress with slide to a forsaken and arid land.

Yet albeit imbued like a dance 
of an Angel of Mercy pattering 
dulcimer primal dance. 
You groom the Earth's creatures and Man.
Cold feet at the altar is no problem when it just enhances anticipate-precipitate-eager sweat gland.
You have never narked on couples making love under your theater.
Happen stance, buckles-weak at the knees of falter.
Joy-ned of conciliate-troves, your reign.
Of her highness, 
state your piece,
but honor her procession.

A non-void-confetti parade is in order, 
in your condensate pangs.
Rein in
our busy scatterbrains with board games,
Family zeal,
moving still, to new frontiers
as you make the Weather-Person a liar.
Now that's something I can respect, for real!
But waving to gatherings like a pregnant cloud, 
suggests hot soupy meal.
instill your fertile glade of ladle and our stomachs and imaginations, fill. 
As you make your way down the isles, veil in a vapor shroud, vowed to precipitate thunderous spray,
the groom of liquid feel.
To shower upon to vow, off-spring, 
chance of 
honey-moon. 
This poetry is not aloud, just thinking to myself.

Moon says wow, peaking through- to this wedded Life. 
On cloud nine aren't we. 
Oh I see your "witchy ways", winks, drinks in her radiant pours, says aloud,
"well, played". "Blame it on the rain."
CAPTCHA Preview
Type the characters you see in the picture
Required