A Sweetheart Mote Cyrch A Chwta
Soft motion on a moon swing,
big wishes waltz slow dancing.
The skyline starts romancing
with a glow that’s trumpeting.
Constellations glow and ping
like a young prince whispering
‘Let us make music all night.
The air is tight and pulsing.’
As shooting stars create trails,
all that surrounds you just pales.
Just one touch of fairy tales,
such innocence your soul wails.
Falling into cream and veils
red roses have tipped the scales,
now you believe what they wrote.
A sweetheart mote’s lush entrails.
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