i love my local men the way they are.
nothing beats having spent the rest of my life with someone who understands my culture and home as much as i do.

Trampled to skin the floor,
By the very spawns who came as fluid entities.
To gently feed the sleeping serpent, he provokes.
To no fault of his, he succumbs to paralysis.
As he holds the rose which pricks and flow such honest vanities,
He sees not the said witch, but truth, virtue and humble mystery.
As the rose sheds her petals in regret for which he bleeds,
He just looks at her and concedes.
He whispers, “Hush now, shed no more.”
And he explains, for every petal fallen he hurts by four.
He raises her to his lips, as her thorns still embedded to subdue.
His gentle breathe gently blows on her being,
He says, “I love you.”
composed by: the great one

