Those of us who sit in treasured solitude,
With a smile on our faces,
Reckoning the sole purpose of that smile,
Are often considered fools, saints or retards!
That there is a certain remainder of utter gratification,
that only the involved comprehend;
Makes the riding wave even more musical to surf!
Secrets don't want to robe themselves in luscious white gowns. Strolling through the woods, telling the world that they have literally stumbled upon a being that graciously yet shockingly conceives every breath, every glance, every blush and every open door.
Out of the caves of fascination, trickle out the goblins of thoughts, riding their ponies into every new spring, splashing their ears and soles with sparkling endearment. Smiling, grinning and content.
That a secret could circumscribe swainishness is a new book altogether.
That compassion might be lust's new blanket...is a thought setting itself to be in motion
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