O sweet nevermore,
wash me upon the shore;
of which is filled with love and abundance,
that will be my only guidance;
for wanting his love,
my feelings cannot ignore;
because his otherworldly dance,
is the epitome of my ancient lore;
for his butterfly eyes,
I would die to see and spy;
for his calloused hands,
I would want to hold me when I cry;
for his luscious pink lips,
I do yearn to touch and kiss;
for his fluttering hopes,
I would always miss;
but in commencement,
he is no more mine to list;
for it has ended,
with but our little mist;
and now all I do is weep;
provoke the nightmares in my sleep;
because he is not mine to seek after,
and no more the source of my own laughter.