Peach lips gently hugging the sky and dreams
hang as baubles on cream antlers of those stags
whom canter among gentle beds of amber sweets
from volumes of fables older than salted nouns
that saw depths of molded wells on ancient hills
dripping languidly with the molten thoughts
of gods decomposed without any of that humane love
treasured in the gilded vaults underground
and who’s lips are these?
Some forsaken mutation?
Such betrayal on the petals of this continent.
How could you, darling?
Lost doves loop around a barren earth
sodden with molasses casted by the contrite
and coffee hymns test regurgitation.
Squawk anon squawk anon anon.
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