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poem

i felt compelled to write a little something after reading herrick's "the vine" and marvell's "to his coy mistress". plus an interesting night of sleep. so, credit goes to those two guys and sleep.

here i am again,
a year and a half later,
yet in another predicament.
is it truly my age as they say,
or might it just be me?
it's so unsettling,
that state of confusion,
in which love and lust intertwine
like vines against my breasts.

there's this intimacy and compassion
that i dare not abandon.
this time, i think, i've learned my lesson.
still, i have erotic dreams
of passion and lust,
"like amorous birds of prey".
the face and body shifts
from night to night,
a Metamorphisis in color, sex and size.

addicted

a long time coming...