In prose there is breath of sensuality.
The words of the Sandman,
I am he, who spills ink.
With stem of the feather I scribe,
So be it for given eyes to read,
Erotic parables of the flesh swaying.
Evenings bring falling melodies
Of laughter's and hijinks,
Thrill of the dark, I harken my lust.
Oyster of the cunt, I divide willing,
The clit of the pearl I suckle on dish,
Witches' brew steeping.
Rising thighs, opening wide I drink,
Leading my cock down to my confession,
The vagina is the well of my thinking.
In swilling of the elixir of the crevice,
My cum splatters,
I am he, who spills the ink.
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