I am as a
scuttle pot, dusty and smutty, awaiting her cleansing breath to wash away my
sorrow. With a wry smile she culls my hindered transgressions, and her joy can
fulfill my most inscrutable desires.
My deepest
wounds will watch as she enters my soul, forcing old brutal foes made newly
fangless to bite. She creates bumbling simpletons of my twin born gallant
enemies. My joy increases with each graceful step she takes. I listen to her
gentle voice which can if needed ring the ears of any who bid me harm.
Alone she can sustain my struggled
and inquiet spirit. She understands that I will hold tightly to my untruth
until the pain of belief becomes too heavy to bear. I beg that her grace will complete
my dismal and thirsty being.-Johnny V.
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