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Worth His Salt

Tags: love, dark

Sleepless nights of sins, angels fanning winds,
as I lay awake with shadows in dreams,
perhaps in the bowels of hell, I dwell,
whispering, dark rivers of my heart.

In narrows of my mind running through veins,
of a chatoyant moon lusting for green eyes,
without shame into the despair of vassals,
Tragedy her name, deep as the oceans.

With passions risings in the ink of my well,
Tragedy rocks her cradle tween her thighs,
way down in my soul, doused by fires,
of a swoon-doomed crier.

Of her green eyes giving no quorum,
copulating, away from my blues at midnight,
in narrows of my mind running through veins,
as the hound of the devil bray at my heels.

In sleepless nights of sins, angels fanning wings,
reaping the winds of my promiscuity,
seeing her shape in the low light,
clinching hands.

Whispering, dark rivers of my heart,
and hearing the calling of piety,
laying naked in her arms as she charms,
perhaps in the bowels of hell, I dwell.

Now Tragedy giving a distant yell,
as the echo alarms my teapot,
before vespers runs out the clock,
hanging on to my sobriety.

Of darkness goes the night until I wake,
in Tintern Abbey of mountain springs,
frocked as a friar worth his salt,
in silence of an Irish prayer.   

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