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The Cradle of Creation


I’m going to end up paying for my tongue, paying for my deceit like a thief shackled to his own treachery, like a marauder stumbling along into the night, forgetting that the lanterns that poke through the mantle draping the cradle of Love were meant for all life too.

My promise of, I will, I pray for her to relinquish me, that I might be alive another night, another day forgone of my dreams without decline.

I’m going to pay for my actions, pay through the throat of my disbelief. I’d eyes enough to see it, senses enough to gauge her rocky flesh as theirs, and mine.

Let us begin to fly…

© 2011 by mark prime

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