Lost in the valley of love.
On a broad space.
Where her broken heart drove.
I describe her not as a chimera.
Her chest an angels breast.
Her rips as natures camera.
Her beauty a golden brick.
She delude my brain.
With blooms of smokes.
With sparks of pain.
She is a blossom folk.
Her hairs as brairs.
She sleeps in her imagination.
She groans from the fares.
Her beauty is her definition.
Oh what a day dream.
In a realm so real.
Oh what a pipe dream.
In a film so real.
A prism of love.
A mirage of lust.
A fabrication list.
Folded up by my pretense.
By:
Beryl Rem (Promise Sylvester)
Dedicated to Newton Anna
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