I've nothing new to add to this, our story.
I've nothing crimson or unique,
nothing to bend in a new light.
I've just me, myself to lend, this skin,
my shell to wrap with a goodness,
not mine, but of me.
I’m moving under the beam of sun,
the joy raised up to the light,
a servant walking lightly,
careful of the burden in my gait,
in the silent request of my affections.
I've nothing new.
Nothing that’s crimson or unique,
nothing to bend in a new light.
Without the knowledge of that which truly matters,
how could I?
© 2010 by mark prime
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