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On the darkest of nights,
Through a circular window,
Two orbs of despair I espy.
Crinkled drifts of rejection
Sprawl like wounds on the floor,
And ’tis my name he doth curse and cry.

With a tired head in hands
He fences sloth’s claws;
Whilst in through the keyhole I slink,
Gently ticking thalamus,
Neocortex embraced;
A succubus robed in black ink.

I shall have thee surrender
by look or by book;
Through your fingers and soul I infuse.
I hold thy wild heart
In the palm of one hand,
Saturation complete . . .

I’m your muse.