Ramblings with the Dead Poet -- III nicholaslprinceFeb 16, 20231 min readSoftly he touches my heart, he the dead poet As I sit thinking of last night in her arms He tugs away my exhaustion, tucks in my despair Entrenched in the hollows of my mind, pleasure screams Back into my sphere you have returned Discard the veil of sour memories, my lady Taste the new vintage, 'tis sweet and it warms The glow in my eye can no longer be called madness Lust fuels its fiery pyre, illuminated by your touch Follow the poet, he tells me of you with tenderness I, a steward of his teaching, entwined around the spindle Creating the threads to weave, perched upon this hummock I The clothes resulting cling to my flesh, moonlit tranquility His music intensifying the transition my spirit endures
Softly he touches my heart, he the dead poet As I sit thinking of last night in her arms He tugs away my exhaustion, tucks in my despair Entrenched in the hollows of my mind, pleasure screams Back into my sphere you have returned Discard the veil of sour memories, my lady Taste the new vintage, 'tis sweet and it warms The glow in my eye can no longer be called madness Lust fuels its fiery pyre, illuminated by your touch Follow the poet, he tells me of you with tenderness I, a steward of his teaching, entwined around the spindle Creating the threads to weave, perched upon this hummock I The clothes resulting cling to my flesh, moonlit tranquility His music intensifying the transition my spirit endures
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