What sautés
the sheer and sensorial tissues of desire,
hanging as garments of vividness
in a closet of passion’s burnish array
where the shadow of cognizance
pants
in an unsullied incisive ecstasy
once a quake of opportunity
fractures the daily
stretcher of predictions
carrying life’s forecasted fate?
It is the door
to death of eyelids
existing at the end of a tunnel
filled with a charcoal mist
that has no scent,
but speaks
with an intuitive tone
about the location of stars
hidden in our deepest groan.
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William...it's early in the day and I'm probably not awake enough to fully grasp this one, but this is great...I'm still pondering the depth of it...I really like the line about death of eyelids...and the tunnel. :)you stretch the imagination wide open...bravo!