Poetry

My twisted mind be futile if she is present,
Her perfect skin and the yellow sun,
But what act may appeal to her,
For I am neither a fine artist nor a striking earthly,
Just a common figure in her eyes,
So I bury all my offered devotion.
Now she is familiar of my secreted affection,
Whatever can such a hopeless dreamer do?
If only it wasn’t for my twisted mind…