She loves me more,
And, but she loves me not.
Inasmuch t’was an inarticulate inchoate love,
Felicitating the forlorn foliage.

Lethal looks of you are due to my leverage.
Outrages are still in the air,
Violent as those stromes with unknown desires.
En masse are bondage, thee shall envisage.
Scarlet roses are still red, but rosy lips of thine has fade.

Dwelth between the unknown ways of dingle,
In between the uncertain thoughts of reality.
Violet at night as moon of heaven her visage,
Yew, spreading the fatal berries of integrity;
Addicted to the name of admired aforesaid.



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