Wishing lane

“Thy stature is like to a palm tree, and thy breasts to clusters of grapes.” He said, Filled with milk and honey but overwhelming his expectations - he feared, Finding peace and solace in its feel of evermore candor-not for-yet made for-in plentiful, he cheered, Until I sought no more in its unparalleled enchare. Out the door she gushed and out his heart she made deport, Staring across the open door, across the hallway with his heart implode, Laying waste to the mask which clots his eyes afore. I implore to thee, whose eyes are that of a doe, Sing into my ears once more and ward off my fiery foes, Dance with me once more, oh how I MISS YOU so.