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You and Yesterday

Before six pm, cocks crows,
And fast growing infants off bed goes,
Becomes their own benefactors,
Since crawling stopped and other factors

Neat ironed shirts and morning parade,
Stocks legs crossing gutless streets!
Till they finally reach fountain gate,
Till they finally bleach off the streets.

In any way of many ways must be booker,
Or spend incessant times in learning lots,
While deny oneself a lover,
Since having is a good life soughts.

Such be adventure of book bullets,
Much of merriment also part worriness,
And to live life is to fullest,
Comes the crossing-road meanness!

Sunsets after the sun rest,
And the girl is the mother of a woman.

Sunsets after the sun rest,
Of many yelling years yet to have you,
For though from undying out-most zest,
Where I find thee I leave thee too!

The past pushes passion into our moving minds,
The calm, serene loveliness we had patently finds,
Untied! not wanting refusal to follow our instincts,
After many years she still' persists.

Once was Gloria and many others,
In the labouring hands of affections,
A close tiny love, a love clustering cluster,
In the aimless air hovered yonder,
Till now plans a reunion not sure of,
Thus, still many others, Rachael song,
A song of wanderers wandering where;
They let their passion unopened.

Before finding a companion,
We went out of each other in search,
Of a love life that is already gone,
Only materials waging all of them,
Must then not stay so long,
If another proves so much.

O' eros the early earnings,
The chemistry of feelings,
In rugged paths with no innovations
Warmth of learning feet and groping hearts
In green leaves, white sheets no flowers.
And once a wailing piano speaking of complex ways,
In tear-furrowed concerto,
Burst brains in with wild ecstasy.

Many years would be;
Dinner in exotic cuisines and shopping be,
In luxurious places lee
And never wonder would of if love be within.

Kevwe where is your small face?
Even' in this such a small world,
Far is your place in this nigh districts,
In daisy lines of forgotten lanes,
If there be any left let it lift you then,
As an intoxicated bride first.

And tonight we drink from a poem,
Cold or hot, sweet or sour
Only your thoughts be what
Tonight we drink from a poem

But how I come up with these lines
Would be just frets, and wanting thee
As we all use to be.

© Austin Milton
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