Her dear

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A week-long slumber, true to life,
unlike fairy-book-style strife,
no apparent poisoned cause,
yet along the lines of lore,
seemed to stem from true love’s war,
mindful that i was no wife
as i yearned for days of yore

suddenly appeared a cure
noticeable his allure
though his shining armor days
to another still belong
so to linger must be strong
must be vigilant for sure
not to make his amour wrong

to not seduce the one you love
but to release him like a dove
who would to you so soon return
except to know that he would burn
to not betray his soul to hell
nor yet to make his children yell
to know just what you are made of
to let it ring true as a bell

it is the plight of virtue held
by prisoners of true love weld
by those who know the love of God
by those whose feet walk where He trod
by those who hope for heavenrest
by those who know that He knows best
and never waver in the love
which although hidden lives above

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