Send the storm
for the grass is needy.
Send me touch
for I am so greedy.

Touch is bliss
skin feels so soft
I trip myself up at
times send me aloft.

The sheets tell us
the story of ourselves.
Our emancipation
it can’t fit on shelves.

Make me wine
from the torrent pain,
find that spot again
and let the bliss reign.

Make the ashes us
where we conquered
the meek inside us
our confidence honored.

Feel the thrust of my
hands with my hips
as I discover every inch of
lips with mine equipped.

Walk away in style
from the bed for miles
never to return to me
and forever I live in denial.

Angel of death love
means nothing from above
and when I push I shove
in this love more than enough.

What else must I prove
to the gods of this earth?
What is this I in front of me
mine that I deserve?

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