Blind Love.

Caught by a strand,
a single strand
of my waking dream,
the moon hangs low;
Austerely wanton and full,
it whispers sweet nothings
that, in their honeyed depravity
drown my prudence.
And my eyes, drunk,
drunk upon its creamy perfection
do not see the spots.

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2 thoughts on “Blind Love.

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