scratching bliss

drowning
in the tickled wordplay
of profane hucksters
lacking
depth,
and sincerity
of purpose,
and love-
like the clumsy
flailings of titillating foreplay
missing that soft
singular kiss
from trembling, anticipating lips.


glimpsing,
and
brushing
the edges
of
infinity,
yet never cleaving
unto Truth.

close your eyes,
and
taste these lips,
and slip
off this
cliff,
unto beauty,
and ruin.

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