a kind of noble rot,
the wormwood works
winding wordlessly
thru the ear,
in a cellar deep,
deeper below,
the wild promises
passion beckoning,
so so so quiet, lips like ever slowly licking,
like this...like this...we like it, we do.
Hidden meetings, deepest farther,
a kind of choice is made, for all the others.
Finally, the wine is popped
the dress lingers in the shadows
tomorrow floating on some rack.
A contrast landscape
every green imaginable,
the perfect space and distribution of life.
a kind of beautiful thing,
a kind of harmonious sound,
a kind of idyllic course,
a kind of bio bless;
i am wound wordless
stricken and lovely now.
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