IRC-Galleria

How do we love, the thought is startling
It is the dove, her flight is starting
Whenever we dance, there is no staring
Whatever the trance, there is no broad string

Passing the tides, we're feeling the sting
No need for guides when we're prone to sing!

To route our synapses I guess we'll have to sin
Feeling highly smitten - I let you in.

God's I.