Still tight, little leisure
comes with little pleasure
I’ve found,
that when one simply sits
down
the mirror corrupts itself,
images flicker forth and fro
tides and crests of wave catch
like disease
a gentle sustenance you
crave,
to put the effort in or
out
Maybe soulful, perhaps pout
are your lips
puckered to be
plunged?
Do you cleave with
out
a doubt?
(Source: etheleato)
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