Flushing flash a pulse is racing
flooding in come rising rush,
O' night to wilted morning
day to dark crash dreams to crush.
Clearing up and cleansing
rinsing rust from thoughts to glide,
forced into remission
as submission mortified.
Old death again this era
does the dawning truly sting,
echoes of perversion
or excursions gone unseen.
The hopeful casting call
of lady night to find her mister,
the drying up of dreams to doubt
of those who barely missed her.
Velvet arms about me
whisper soft and raise me slow,
the moments tween my waking
sleeping hope to tremble so.
Yet to rise each morning
thankful in our wretched gracing,
flooding in comes evenings sin
flashing flush of pulses racing.
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