Onslaught by the ripples of words a many,
Slosh to the churns of the fins in the mill,
Meticulous the feel in the Crucifix of the Crusade.
Commands of the inner mind suppressed by tumbles
Freckles fermenting like on the brim of the fume.
A tempest that arose, Amidst a plenty
A face that fancied, The mightiest of the docile feathers
Shakespeare in Love romanced Him
Condemned thought by Elizabeth
He reckons in my memory, Like a child to the mother
… A masterpiece to the Creator.
His Grace, An aura of unspoken intense
Infusing Her Majesty,
With Impeccable Virtue
Transposing Herself like
One of the Lords…
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