Poetica 13

It’s misty, my eyes are not teary, just signs of rain.
I’m scorched and hard, burning with desire to be your earth.
You’re feisty, your eyes are fiery, justify the pain.
No longer a nesting bird, I’m flowing to your hearth.
We’re misty, we get all “teary”, our garments are slain.
We’re in the yard, I’m speaking my worth.

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