She is the moment before the match strikes
I
bleed for Her immolation
I need
Her close by
my poem granaries are filled
Her
millstones wait to grind me
to
a seed velvet smooth
a
stripped bone raw mineral bath
eating
away at my sedentary apathy
my
humanity in a Sisyphus tread mill
I
run endlessly for answers
in
the dead light canyons
of
starry black nights
as
Summer thins the dark
and
I celebrate the purity
of
Her burning all
the
way through me
EJR
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