a good taste of morality

When I lay in bed

For too long

I cannot help but wander

To the things

That I cannot have

the raspness

Of sweet vanilla

the bone of being provoked

And the addiction

in a pink dress

Draping 

that falls too easily

Underneath the breast

The vein to which the blood

stops running

in its jet black void

the very core

the apples move

Like a serpent.




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