Wednesday, July 16, 2008


This love I have for you
Is higher than an ant hill,
Deeper than a mud puddle,
And will last until

At least sometime tomorrow.
Not that I'm promising
I will still be here
then or anything.

This passion that I feel
Fills me, I can't deny,
With all the thrill of watching
Grass grow and paint dry,

But not at the same time.
That would be too much
Excitement, after all.
At least your lips' sweet touch

Never caused that problem,
For our love is as strong
As melted ice in tea
When it sat too long.

Stephen Brooke ©2008

I could have gone on and on here but I think this is more than enough to get across the rather thin joke.

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