In My Thoughts

pretense
is a plight
not present

when the heart’s refuge
doth pine

for venus
through vermillion veil

seek not
for this
with sordid vies

for love is but the toil of tempest’s

tethered breast of importune

resting
on the rusted hinge

of wings

once struck with eminence

whence dusk resumed

in requiem

of fulminance
found unremitting

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