Her.
I’ve told the story once
of a forest made from black
under rainy weather silk,
(bushes, threes)
soft night of pale skin.
Starry eyes of angels seeing…
The land I adore on a heart that beats.
Many moons I hope to live,
to watch, to fall, to feel,
the tender warmth of glory,
the fiery heat of burning sin.
A story of times I told
a bright of space,
a line to write on paper corpse…
for her, about eternal fully love.
-Her-
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