Fog Blessed Arms
Yes,let moist,these foggish arms of night devour me.
I am not a flower, dying in a scalding desert drought.
Holding back your love, doth far from sour me.
Your neglect, sends me to mentors, I dearly sought.
In my gullible insanity, I gave you high recognition.
And discovered for sheer greatness, I was wrought!
Not mediocre poetry, nor trophies as a solution.
Now,waltzing free God,bring me to my poetic fruition.
3/17/2023
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