to the celebration of the body,
knelt, anointed to the black throne oddly;
enduring shackled thoughts of razor sharp
sheeted music lies before honeyed harp.
in finest wood, a dance in song is sung
`tis beauty when surrender's on the tongue.
a wick to light the beast so it will ban
the many forms save for the one red fan.
as dark destroys the tender morning light
with involved ways that are far from polite.
ignite the chains and hang to savage knives
amidst the brutal screams that ever thrive
between the cruel frost and tender spring
there is a bloom who in the cold does sing.
`t. imaan tretchicovmanicova
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