before the day draws its curtains
i find myself bent over this moment of word
and in a thin thread of deep red and gold
i weave the spell of metaphor
to stitch themselves right into your heart
on this falling of winter night
the velvet silence is slipping between
the barren branches of the pin-oak
the hurried doings of the day
softens into dreaminess
as the twilight splinters into the deeper dark of night
my heart rises with fervent pulsing
the love you conjure up in my veins
smells of a freshly cut-open fruit of the passiflora
i breathe in long and slow
filling my heart with this ambrosial glowing
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