BH (Seventh of March,1961 / )


The gleam of your white armour
lays waste to every contour
edges as if washed away
take leave, a loss of focus
porous planes, once hard
submit their once proud shine
gravity gives up its hold
retracting into deeper domains
not willing to take up the challenge
what hope, a lowly worm like I
to be her night in shining amor.

by Benjamin Hickmott

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