Asking for a podium of hearts,
Enabling the viscose of nests,
Hence, the yoke of love ascends.
She chains her wings to halt the flight,
They flap, they tither …
Surely, want to fly.
The reception around her boundaries,
Weakens at the prime
She tends to mold her caricature
But alas, it costs a dime!
Butter her hands,
They have endured deserts parch.
Tingle her heart,
For the placid waters have been calm too long…