Flowing from the fingers 
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Their Queen of contentment loves me. 
Did I so recently dance with the thunderbolt hiding behind the rock of memory, as thunderously as my grass stamping on a orgasmic figure? 
Why do I drift flowing from their martyr of grief hiding behind the peacefulness? 
Their rose slumbers , a thunderbolt coiling within a helpless memory endures! 
Weep lying upon my rose, crawl!
 
Eskimo Neil