Zoey

If its not too late, I’ll see it through, each evening by your gate, down fallen roads, my mother states be true, but she doesn't know, how your love makes waves, within our secret venue, smells of purple grapes, I’m lucky to condone, a place to secrete virtue, don't feel cast alone, in these lands of hate, you make me swoon, trust me to say, I melt beneath your bones, the garden's lemon blue, anything to postpone, this time of trouble.