ne’er here nor there,
green hue of flowers,
sent to one who least…,
expected,
she sat in the golden hall,
like Russian czar’s daughter,
vane of the breasts,
pointing like compass…,
straight to North,
there I lied, cheated,
sang my morning song,
drunk from the essence…,
…, of stars, of stars, my love,
it was a flame like nothing else,
to put a warm hand in the cold snow,
and remember,
how your hooks creeped into mine,
parts of an unknown machinery,
oiled and ready to go,
there, by the roasting of fires,
sweet tasting cheeks,
pressed against turmoil,
I sang,
not with words or sound,
nor mystical ways of a desert journey,
but touch,
ancient wisdoms of embodiment,
embalmed in tombs of our forebears,
suddenly filled with doubt,
yet sure in their ways,
we were there,
not by choice or providence,
divine guidance,
but something else…,
else entirely,
“What?” - she asked,
“Truth, my love”,
“Truth”, I said.
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