trembling as though it had been touched by None
I robed the names of the passions and lost the wings, ground down, still vibrating, closer than naked skin, and doubting whether None or One might begin the world
yet I expect nothing but the scarlet world of symbols
I believe I am the vague texture of prayer collapsing, ground down, next to zero trepidation and fever,
the wind and its secrecy of gift, seven days, seven seas, sailing fires of love descending upon the other, unborn, fires of mine
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