Disfigured
By Trilby Severn
Thu, 05 Sep 2013
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1 comments
The brazen wind grasped
at my thighs
in faultless echo
as you left
the dampened imprint
along the bed-frame.
In a mercurial twist
you abandoned,
a huddled mass
of Egyptian cotton
and the swelling smell
of Parisian flowers
tapping at this
sordid fate.
It's the smoldered hope
of broken yards of lace
that
I will never know
that disfigured stance
across your face.
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