The
morass shimmers with hope,
much
the same way a heart quivers
during
tribulation—
knowing
its twin deceives time with distance,
tempts
fate with illusion.
Yet,
the fluttery and pageantry
of
woebegone loves tempt illicit
this
lust-drenched evening;
born
primordial in smoke and woe.
It’s
impossible to know
the
breadth of its beat,
amidst
the amorous ministrations
of
the evening—
a temptress
fleeting
within the ebbs
of your
tide.
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