January 19, 2010
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Your words to me are bitter prose,
Sickening sweet, your lyric goes.
A hummingbird drinks nectar dry
leaves all flowers to wither, die-

My silver shield, my iron base;
it melts beneath your warm embrace.
You speak to me, it's only then
my frosted lungs can breathe again.

But who am I to know for sure
If the rays of sun on me are pure?
Time will tell, when you are through,
if I'll be left to wither, too.

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