The Muse
Behind thought forgotten.
I am again, thirsting the morrow.
Wake for then
Only to breathe back better days.
Come, always coming
Never not coming
Beauty who dwells.
"Rosebud"
mother nicknamed my mouth
something short for shape, size
small talk, cut the crap, show it as it is
bawdy behavior: opening, closing, fertile
traces of you, should I tell her?
what you call it.
Saturday
One night Lying displaced She tricked herself Or maybe he, failure. Caring to say No words. Dried up Poetess. Tongue misplaced texture Feel her instead, he can’t Try. Stand, displacement of self Irretrievable night. Who cares? Not she, He won’t let her.
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