Her Inheritance Poem by James McLain

I already have her, but of that other that.
It does not matter.
To be in love of her not I.
How I loved her, but alas.
For the wind can be kind.
As for my voice cooling,
when it touches hers her shallow chest, am I hearing?
Wind her flame blows it finds me.
Latter.
Another.
As for her his fragrant other.

So it is as it was before.
Before like my last kiss.
Her voice.
Hers as a river over flows it's banks tight lipped.
Bodies above where it is bright.
Bodies below you reaching upward observe.
Her inheritance ifinite.

I already have her, to be sweet.
It does not love that but perhaps.
I have been convinced of her.
There is love, therefore it is short,
it is the very song long to have forgotten.
Because I did her like this.
And what was left was only more of this her on my arm.
One with the long lonely night.

The night like the chill is this.
If you are not with it satisfied if,
it was not by my very, to my every she was lost.
But this is the last pain.

Me to whom she makes sufferage.
And unlike the last poem which of all of these.
I have written all because of her.