[32] Romance, James B. Nicola

 

When heart-felt, such proclivities
should not spell certain doom.
But hearts filled with lascivities
empty fast a room.

So you’re my Esmerelda. I
don’t want to make you wince,
but can’t stop ringing from on high
knowing I’m no prince,

offering but words and warts,
the curse of literary sorts.

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