We be artist, alive

We be artist, alive

And we see artist, believe

And we sense sexual, relieved

And we tense idea, unthought

And if thought,

Dangerous caught.

And so tell me then:

Do you feel anything

We once could easy have felt?

Is there a clock

You’d yearn to turn

Back?

Is there a skin you’d

Imagine accepting and

Warm?

Is there a night

Of stormy devours

Which, even now,

You’d like to pretend ours?

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