Dear Bard Of Avon,
To have walked through gardens of you
I, speechless as silences, often do,
Enhanced your glance at romance, drifting across mossed maze
Before time arrived for discovery, of your plenitude yesterdays.
Why must petals’ have to fall, no scrutiny eulogy, after-all
Poetic words asunder, torn to shreds, torn apart,
But you already knew about gardens full of hue ~
Ne’r a petal less safest, softest, eternal hark
Within finest finessed acquaintance by language of a heart?
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