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Thursday, August 27, 2009

She is.

She's the love,
and I dreamt of her
while walking,

And I think of her
upon sleeping,

And I yearn for her,
even now.

And nothing as sweet
will touch these lips,

And she in aesthetics
crushes all form.

For men didn't make her,
Women didn't shape her;

She was shaped
by billions of years
of coincidence.

Or a very careful hand
with brilliant love,
and a passion for perfection.

She is my love,
and she is benevolence,
and she is absolution,
and she is.