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Tags: erotic
At day the shadows follow in my composing,
On the edge of dusk I write, yawning.
In darkness words fall like wet thoughts dripping,
Coughing in my misgivings.

Cascading from the well of my mind's repertoire,
Like a mime the feather of the owl,
Slings ink upon the dais of yellow parchment.
The hour of the hoot.

Scribing on, like sages I writ,
On crumpled words of my fantasy creations. 
Tip-toeing the boundary of sweet peppermint
And old clone's tea. 

With silent whispers and inclinations of chills,
Bequeathing to you the swill of my sobriety.
On the crest of new craze, eeriness about you,
I caress the aura of your soul.

Grasping my cock with your cunt,
Oozing the slew of my fountain dew.
Shadows lay comfort on your breasts,
Dripping cum of moonlit musk. 

Like a reservoir my tomes run deep,
Over boulders and soft minds left behind.
The hour of the owl I do prose, 
On the edge of dusk I write, yawning.

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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