I have 3629 stories published in
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Sun that shines in through my window, scattering your precious rays, can you see me sitting, trying to write this poem in your praise? In your divine golden image
I am not home till I come home to you; till I see your face, beaming, at the door. In your arms is the only home that’s true and, without you, I’d be homeless forevermore.
They call you la Lune De L’Amour. How many love scenes you must have lit. Your crescent bow and beams have hit more than poor Cupid's arrows ever hit and yet you look so lonely to me;