It is not that I despise the winters of my indecision
but the way they speak of me with derision
how valleys low in lush language paint
our bodies quick and fervently spent
This is not fickle or even delight
it is much more morose
and sheds little light
on the absence of longing and long lonely nights
Even I grow tired of being correct
when questions from others
feigning content
come begging and pleading for a solemn lament
What man can fly like the wind in my hair
or walk quietly by my side to be fair
without question or doubt
to be worried about?
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