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The vermillion blush on my face

dies every day to be resurrected

Beneath the pious palm of yours.

It seeks your miraculous caress.

It reeks of the cold persistent past.

But your warms hands kneading

The stale n' inconsequential cheeks

Of mine and the graces they pour;

They burn them up into vapour


Temporarily but I don't complain.

Do as you may please.

But as innocent, please don't play.

For you're not ignorant.

For You're omniscient.

And I,

Your follower

Will always remain.

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