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.


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