I am a poetry garden bed, down on my bed is loam soil of love. Fertile to make words grow with vigour, in my bed grow similes that bring smiles. My bed grows paradoxes that paint the soul.

In my bed grows personification that perches on one heart, in my bed grow the metaphors that meet the need of people, in my bed grows the alliteration that aids laughter. In my bed grow the soliloquy speeches that inside my soul quench thirsty paradox plants.

When the rainfall themes of love glow like lightning in my deep soil, like thunder, love keeps trembling on my soil. The sun provides light that feeds my love words. On the soil, like photosynthesis happens, the moonlight scares thieves at night to steal the sweets fruits.

In times of peril the anguish drought, my words root deeper horizons of soil to fetch underground water. My love stem words wither not for I still feed the groundwater, the lives of my plant fall to keep water for the stem only. However, the fruits of love are bitter during this season.

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