Can this lonely 'I,'
Worship your form, the caste of your epidermis! Oh the succulent naked soothing voice of your skin, With one hand tied inside the memory ache past of your wounds, My love will stifle the tense rush of tumour blood to the mountain ghost ridges of your personal buried never glorified or exposed historical tombs!
I shall sleep inside the passing chorus of your precious content heart's rejoice of coherent time, Wherein resides this temperate poetic voice of mine... Oh muse.
In earnest anticipation of,
Tomorrow
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