Plethora

You’re right about the praise I dish your way jail’s the comeuppance of a liar poet My only want is your content and if I hold another want may I never be granted it Each full moon is born of a crescent yet what’s a full moon got Vitiligo and the morning sees me with eyes of dew a fever that breaks out on your integument On your skin exanthem is a pasture of anemones Because you’re one of them I love my enemies