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Whispers

Whispered skies spray misty summer shadows,
recalling purple forest shadows
and cool lake light swims after a symphony
of aching lust.

She smells of fall,
of red leaves and rust shine,
panting time and skin before winter sleep.

Fiddle hot moans
through the soaring petals of her essence, then
let those who have had her
chant elaborate bitter worship,
smearing raw dreams of vitriolic intensity
on her pale purity.

Rage at her eternal essence,
as she sings the music of the void,
and the disenchanted fade into white noise.

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