she rose to the rhythm
of a gaining mist and weed
the trudge and trickle
down the back of her neck
the growing spine of a rose
bushed and thorned and beautiful
beside her - cupid's arrow struck -
a poor boy without a beard
between two white sheets his breath
heavy with the burden of bones
a man to become all flesh and blood
to the woman who feeds on light
he sleeps with a rose, a thorn
and the morning dew
like a weeping girl is all
a man could wish to comfort
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