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Magenta fire twisted snake-like
Along the folds of her pleated hair.
Her hands rippled sweet
And the strings of her guitar wept along,
Following a hard, beaten path,
Craggy and spartan.
The bitten nails of each finger
Were pointed inwards, towards her heart,
Gentle fish-lip nubs, blowing bubbles
In the solemn, swimming feeling of pure existence.
Her imbedded eclipse melted,
Smooth and silky like dark chocolate, and she felt then that
The rings in her ears, the silver on her stomach and in her lip
Like awkwardly placed ornaments on a gigantic sycamore tree.
Her gaze was lifted.
Her eyes were dark brown cherries, ripe with contentment,
Dented and slightly dulled by
A fearsome interaction with this Earth.
The guitar made a melody,
But she conjured the notes, breathing them out,
Turning abstract into concrete sound.
Her mouth caved in, then, like the sea, blossomed forth
In a petaled wave of joy.
She was breathless now and had stopped playing.
She had made her fondue.
Her eyes were chocolate-covered cherries.