| Upside down, or so it seems, bats hang.
Dreams cape tree in ruffled dark, sonar drifting, idle taste of moth in air. Shy leather fans hold echoes fur-close, cradle sound of stormy night. Inside out, or so it seems, mind stabs evasive moon yet misses heart. Unspoken torment, wind impounds for fun. Fortunate that flame endures long life for moth to fly at all. Quiet sense of wing, hush, don�t disturb the night. Thought-fire only ever rests for dawn to tip cool branch with sun. Let me watch dark shadows slide to kiss, then leave your shoulders bare. |
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