Before the Fall

My love to you is like lyrics of lust,

painted in grief and dry thirst.

Unbound ocean of admiring words

A painful desire,burning passion fire.

buried in my sorrow's  rolling pyre,

and acts full of pitiful manly dires.

Like a marksman's mean prowl,

hunting head bold above clouds.

Knowing his chastised tongue on every foul,

its much like the union of the Moon and the howl.

this was thought he recited ever-since, he first had her astound.

But hereon love to him is like,

the fall of early winter flake on a

withered willow once wrecked, 

now woeful upon the change

lying in  the distasteful wretches, ending unwise.

sharing fate of the dying sun in winter white.

whilst in despite his will may try 

every means to despise the writhe his

heart  having confide.

But never shall it depart from, even if he likes,

half dead little diabolical call it divine,

he mustn't decline this intoxicating tide,

splashing on his nerves making him more alive,

almost reaching to an end where he might hope a ray of light,

and there he is hurrying for the antidote,

before the summer dies,

before the summer dies.