Bougainvillea
There beside her in Cornish Wales,
like a fairy in pixie tales,
flew down the water's fall.
A water pall off the granite wall.
A waterfall wreathed in Bougainvillea.
There we sat in the highland haze,
where mists surrounds us like a maze,
for our heads to swell in,
and focused our grins,
while we were around our breezes and showers.
Where the waterfalls turns pinks and greens from Bougainvillea.
The full blossom and the summer breeze
in which that moment haunts my memories.
And there where the mists linger forever,
in the midst of the mists we shared a kiss,
While the late noon moon did bless,
us smelling the fresh leaves and buds of Bougainvillea.
See, she wore the flowers,
which excites and empowers,
and I wrapped some around her head.
She took my head instead
and kissed me the longer.
Her flower's scents empowered me stronger
and my hands next to hers.
In that time we had breathing in the Bougainvillea.
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