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Stony Sweetheart,
grazer
on meadows of
skin, WHO
chimed you into
Sunday,
the one day when
there is no bloodshed? Flirtatious
Dominatrix,
subject of our fascination,
now unsleeping,
now raised up
from the darkest soil of heaven.
Say you wish you
were a Seraphim,
but slice through our
sinews
with the gold tipped blade of
your song,
your deliriously
hypnotic siren song,
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that cripples
our feeble attempts
at gasping for life.
Sunday.
No bloodshed.
And you are inscrutably a
wanton Seductress,
approaching
from far away,
yet never far enough
away
to save us
from the predictable
outcome
of our
dangerous contrivances,
and let us go
unclaimed.
Yours is immortally
a love that is, needs
be,
all
consuming,
all
exhaustive,
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