I wrote some poems

this ones called
"we were playing cards"

A game of hearts has never won as big of a jackpot as this, my love!

But tell me lover, upon this table here, wherefore art thou commence?

In plain English, where are your comments.

God told me he knows not the answer to your questions and I have yet to ask mine.

I have yet to ask mine, my love. Shall I ask about us? Shall I ask today, from God, about you and my love for one another? How it extends to everyone we come into contact with? And about our fears my love, shall I leave anything out?

I shall not!

As a child beloved, I knew not the meaning of fear of God. But as I extend that name to you today I know now that the fear to be outcast from your court would have me in the throes of eternal suffrage. Surely God has no mercy but since I am refering to you as my God my love, you must be able to extend your mercy and have me back in your garden once again where we are equal companions in this blossoming ride to heaven.

Yes, yes I know you tire of my biblical verses and my thoughts of God and all this are but mere illusionary dreams of guidance and not based on any sound knowledge other than the knowledge I possess in my heart.

My childish set of rules cast aside, I know now my love that an eternal summer of bliss with you awaits once we meet again on this earth.

When you tell me to be gone and tell me I am not loved my heart beats deaden and I slowly wither. It is only through the constant insistence of the mechanics of my anatomy and my lack of energy that lessens the blow to a mere dull ache at the lack of your precence and constant companionship. Such a paradox can surely only mean death to the inept and uncertain my love.

As I told you once and many times since, I have made up my mind and you are the one I chose and continually find to be the right choice and depsite the difference in our opinions we never fight. You know this and so do I. Let us not ever get to that point where we men and women take camps and bare arms against one another. Your guns will always be bigger my love but my pussy will always be sweeter.

Unlike these postulations and accusations, big egos and misplaced faux offended gestures, our love knows how to behave accordingly. As it dances among the tall grasses, the sound our love makes is something akin to the sounds of baboons in a jungle canopy, or say, honking geese flying in unison towards a sunset of mystical proportion.

Portion me this my love, a bone? I have yet to chew a soup I have yet to taste while the bite that awaits is much lauded by its bark.

I leave, and bid you a peck on the cheek, both and a little kiss on your lips to last a lifetime

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