To Love Her Was His Disease

To love her was his disease —
It'd kill him if he could not please.

And love serves to perfect its wooed,
Not merely please its object's mood.

Posted on Tuesday, November 17, 2009 by David Gregg | 0 comments | Links to this post
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Slow Growth

Seeds in dark ground
reach
for light unseen,
for downward-pressing warmth
reach.

Favorite Deviants