Stones Of Blue
In deep crevices dust mites hide,
Beneath old pages and in nooks.
As if avoiding the dawn,
And shades of hue.
Cobweb blankets of public opinions
Garner small fractions of my tomes.
That caress my shelves,
The bookshop my musty possession,
Within the dark bowels of Budapest.
Exuding erotica of harken fetishes,
And fornications of my eeriness.
On entrance of hallowed quaintness,
One must fast mediocrity of the cock.
For in the phallus of the soul,
One is strong with erupting cum.
Foreskin is the cover of the pleasure knob,
Perched upon shaft from the hilt.
Awaiting seduction from my fair maiden,
I scribe proclivities of mere mortals.
On veined spear of my proactive reaction,
My stones of blue caressed by breeze.
With droppings I prose,
Beneath old tomes and in nooks.
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