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Click hereas bloom of dawn leaves dark ended
the prickle skin crimson of morn
do you hear the moan of eye spends
of that friable illumination born
those wind said prayings to psychoticia
by a goddess of affective non emotion
with her finger mouth sounds gasped wide
and palpating sighs sensing her notions
those sometimes somatic sensations
whispered from tactile tease of warm
should/could we dare our eyes bed this thought
of haptic dance in fate met entwine
you as my slave of servile bond possessed
and would/could I be your maestro of sublime
or perhaps just an artist in consummate skin
with whispers from a plebeian poets rhyme
roughed common with unwashed vulgarity
would you welcome such a singe of crime
oh, to hold your empyreal venerate
my luxuria waits wet with panted prime
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