Every morning at the
end of the lane
the mansion house
entices me with
charming power.
Sometimes
she
, it can't be he or it,
runs towards
me or
she
cautiously slinks
as a hidden seductress.
lacking
a tree to cover
her
beauty.
To
her
I
must
look
as
a
pious
frog
in
an imminent
approaching procession
towards
her
the
divine ruler.
The
dream
,
as in a predictable story,
ends
here,
hard
awakening
out of
a
close encounter.
Every
evening when
,
ignoring her existence,
I'm returning
home,
she
looks at me pityingly
from
behind the curtain.
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