In writing I compose what I see,
as if dew falling from a leaf.
Dripping my ink I scribe poetically.
Darken ebony of my soulful shadow.
Lusting creations of mortality.
Caressing spirits of sensuality.
I pen unspoken words on paper,
intertwining erotica from dust.
One cannot begin to understand,
without visions of comprehension.
That night is to creativity,
as cellos are to humming love.
If masturbation is the tonic,
then fornication is philharmonic.
The quill being a baton,
ejaculation my written scribbling.
As if dew falling from a leaf.
Sandman needs sleep.
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