black poetry

the darkness steals the forms of all the queens
woman much missed, how you call to me, call to me
our pleasant moments fly
o fair and stately maid, whose eyes
as a white candle
a little peach in the orchard grew
there is a country full of wine
i despise my friends more than you
why do
i made a vow once, one only
i love my hour of wind and light
why then, must we see?
do you think, my boy, when i put my arms around you