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The Lead

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Open stares at her butter form
So beautiful for the eye of the storm
Porcelain and ivory the senses week
Melts on the curves of her cheeks
I ache to touch her flawless chin
And feel the feathers in her skin
That honey-cream ocean hair
Delicate threads hovering in fruity air
Run my unworthy, crackly fingers
Through the mystery of silken singers
Hear her tones as crisp as water
While mine reminisce of a terrible slaughter
Not love
Nor affection
Awe and admiration for her perfection

And jealousy





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