With This Letter Through Your Door

June 11, 2008
I stick my finger into this air
It smells of nothing!
Woe for love
Woe for leisure
Woe to feel fingertips give me soft and gentle pleasure.

This nothingness speaks with gentle tones
It is not a whore, as once thought.
You claim for beauty
You claim for passion
You claim my heart in a blurry vision.

This emptiness will be filled not with lust
not at the hours measure.
This goddess

This woman
This darling swims my mind with plenty good omen.

My mind now tangos with hate and pain
As I saw you kiss a snake with no disdain
I call you beast
I call you whore
I stop our clock with this letter through your door.

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