The Crucial Hour

There’s little to a love without an ache;
Unruly passion sometimes flies ahead,
And noted not, for reckless make mistakes—
To promised lands unwittingly are led.
You’d bottled me within a decade’s glance,
Though hands and numbers wilder ever be.
You’d deemed of us a duo in a dance;
If dreamed I in my dreams things not to see!
And viewing round my latency, you soon
Pushed upper hand to reach the crucial hour:
The very cloths between which love was strewn,
A decade’s choice compressed beneath your power.
There’s little to a love without an ache,
And by my chest I see my love at stake.

The End

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