Up am I tripping and in love falling
With thy angelic frustration. Of course,
Thou dost know that, though thine hair is sprawling
Around thine shoulders, I do it by force—
Which easily categorizes thee.
Gladly upon myself do I impose
The vain desire to suffer your love’s throes;
I’m no idiot to wish to be free.
After all, it is the proper manner
To fall for love, as autumn is the best,
And winter pains loving with death’s behest.
One canst not purchase beads from a tanner.
I’m wont for casual, chilled affection
After summer’s heated misdirections.