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The Waking Dream

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I lust for every memory infected

By my fear's lectures...

If only to touch the weapons.

(Soft skin and curves)

Even the holsters, keeping them sealed.

My prying eyes,

Despite despise

Of white lies surrounded in black,

Long for the demon's lips

To caress my ignorance.


I thirst for the fervor 

Of her intelligence,

To penetrate the crevaces 

Of her mind.

Entwine inside,

And send shivers through her spine.

All so we may come to fruition-


In our dimension

Of sex, love, hate.


But my desires want to consume

The womb,

And bear the seed

Of instantaneous mood swings.

Such an infant would grow wings,

And leap lacking the knowledge to soar,

From either/or:

The mother who is imagenry.

The father who is a dream.


Therefor, my lust is all that exists,

Because love precedes my sins.

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Well done!

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