I flittered like a frozen butterfly in a silver artic haze.
My wings wilting erroneously from a chill since unbridled.
I waited in my wonderland of crystal blue ice.
But my freedom wass contingent upon surrealistic designs.
A Martyr in my mind ceases her egocentric complaining.
I have floated on a morally inept Western Wind.
But flames from a lust so potent seared me into unbridled action.
I leapt with the joy of supplication and the artic relased its prize.
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