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A crack in the crust spews forth a bleeding sea.
Sweetheart, heed my plea to let it wane--
Compressed, hot, seething-- let it rise where we
Seek depths deeper into the celestial plane.
I think we can get there-- exposed, unclothed,
The clean crisp air, a long pointed spear,
Cleaving all that we've owned and betrothed--
All held dear in the terrestrial sphere.
Will we see Therese of Avila, the rapture
Raising the Self where Love overwhelms?
Or feel St. John of the Cross in cold capture,
Freed with the dark night of the soul?
Oh, please tell me ectasy comes not in a flask,
Bought like fool's gold and sold by the heathen,
That we'll fly freely with nothing to ask,
And both see the tree, burning in Eden...
And when we wake,
Eat, talk and say what we're feelin'.
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