Incubus

Alex Mascarenhas's picture

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Ask me not what I think of you
My dark tongue could desecrate your pupils
Time breathes, time heals, and time knifes your scruples
 
Ask not what time thinks of the world of yours
Its cold bitter-sweet sword cuts concrete butter
Its blue lips will kiss yours in the street gutter
 
I ask not what I think of me
My deranged black veins will poison silver moons
Our predicament has crimson demons swoon
 
Time asks not what we think of it
My incendiary touch did mark your breast
Your imaginary hate put mine to rest
 
 
 
 

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