you feel your way around, groping at the seas
and bringing the waterfall to terms with its knees.
and your breath, in this red chapel, lends a heavy
fog. surrounding me at my altar, as i read from
haunting old pages of fiction.
dead old hollow old dry old dead.
you have no reason, and your pulse cries dry.
you dance and slither and breathe sensual
'neath clouds and not 'tween sheets.
our clash is nostalgic, and it never wasn't there,
startled and out of breath by our ever-ending air.
dead old hollow old dry old dead.
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