What falls, for certain
In the midnight, to the morn?
While eyes cross
Scenery’s loss,
Blood for the pleasing funeral
Makes for the lip’s
Most guarded secret,
Stolen beneath the layers,

Her hair drizzles, to flesh,
In droplets, or earthen smears
Against fading countenance
For the pleasures of eyes,
By the complacency
Beknown to lies.

Her fingers shred the scene
Among teeming hues,
As her legs open with the gates
To one forgotten Heaven.
Light draws her close.
Close to whom knows her most.

Fight for the weight.
The weight, and then,
The state
For what cannot be relived
As love with open doors,
To life with closed eyes.

Burning pleasure
Among the embers,
Static driven to a coil,
Wrapped in this rope
Fed through
To the soil.

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