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Image for the poem Weaver's Wheel

Weaver's Wheel

Of wilted hours and swill's gibberish
While a trail of a dark cloud looms
Being swept by the devil's broom

Beneath a toxic rusting red moon
I in recess of a catacomb's womb
Hemorrhaging lust of my cock's Bastille

While prosing Goth in a journal of sins
With apostrophes in an ossuary of pens
Shaking sand to absorb the staccato

As lightening crashes a crescendo
On wilted petals of poetic omens
And the tickler tween her thighs

As she spins at the weaver's wheel
Lechery settles in the muse's cradle
While her clit fiddles my Achilles' heel

Like a ghost haunting a whimsical
Poetic embers simmer in my head
The sum of it all being my sanity

As her breasts rest on my chest
Unsettling choirs of my mind's fog
I pondering the isms and stigmatisms

With sins having no boundaries
And the tickler tween her thighs
Hemorrhaging lust of my cock's Bastille
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