POET: PURDEY WILLIAMS.

I think of you often
Mostly when alone
The magical quality
Of such a tender bone

Others reduce me to broken tears
Their kisses do nothing
To undermine fears

I beg you softly
In the quiet of my bed
To reanimate this wandering head

To teach me love
And how to live
Independently of those that give
To throw myself upon each day
Before we all turn back to clay

It seems, however, to my dismay
You must have found a better lay