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Past Twelve Ticks

On cold January nights
beneath the winter moon. 
If you hear hoofs beats
and see your breath blow.
The wind howling
past twelve ticks. 

If you hear an owl hooting
on a bough above. 
It could be me. 
A vampire
wearing a parka. 

Slowing traveling on the falling.
A sarcophagus with snow tires,
before morn. 
Within my carriage,
my libido rising. 

Beautiful virgins 
showcasing my mausoleum. 
Strumming lips on my cock.
Nocturnally confessing
for immortality.
My penis drools. 

Coach lamps reaching 
into dark ebony.
Frozen by obsidian pleasures,
I tweak their lips.
Precum freezing 
like diamond crystals.

On cold January nights
beneath the winter moon. 
Giving me head
within my coffin.
A sarcophagus with snow tires.
Wetting my desires.

This story is protected by International Copyright Law, by the author, all rights reserved. If found posted anywhere other than with this note attached, it has been posted without my permission.

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