Bloom; and we are here.
Open up the door
For our garden to appear.
Flowers, gentle fields
Illuminate your hair
Blonde strands swaying
As you step into the clear.
Observing your essence
Previously shadowed sunlight
Darkens my eyes and
As you turn to me, I fear
Your face to never again appear.
What would become of me
For this part to leave
Leave me be and run from here.
What never smelled so sweet
Severs me from you here.
Mikey Bachman's Other Poems
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