.
There is this boy I like
Back home, in the country,
He is somewhat alike
A strong ancient oak tree:
So calm and collected
Yet fiery with passion,
His hair strangely ashen,
His smile long perfected.
I have sadly not seen
The object of my thoughts
For years but I have been
Since for him having hots.
I paint him in my sleep,
Sometimes his absence weep,
Has he wished my return
For as long, does he yearn?
Doubt is starting to grow
In my heart, somber throe,
But I cannot back out
Now it is far to late,
As I near the old gate
I must remain devout.
.