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| Flayed truths in blood are spilled on barewood floor,
at your callous feet, malformed lies drift incomplete on pain and mess crowding simple heart�s doorway as you lean shape-shifting self into honest daylight so that, slowly, your false darkness can slide ahead, hopeful of a triumph slamming hard in heart of real. In dreams so holy you would blister i feel only silken sheet wound around me, love itself my morning skin and breath of dawn a breeze on eyelids softly closed to your approach, so blatant and so cruel with intent to swim in sacred blood and tears i shed not for you, but for gentle love itself, that shreds its skin for all. |