What Love
She still walks the streets that moulded the
dimples in her smile,
the streets that had her sing a tale song
tailored with a forged rhyme.
She's fond of the trees that cater a platter
of shade towards her mile,
a mile that has so many hearts of weary
travellers on her pile.
What art is she?
She shares a splif with the dukes of our
time,
And walk into fortresses to dine with the
lords we spite.
She feeds on reasoning of fouled grey
widows,
how come, how should, how can: she
mourns.
What love?
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