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A flame of gold She was Beneath my finger tips. Skin richer than velvet Softer than watered silk. Her words; The breeze that blows from Elysium, Her taste sweet, But yet sour; Like life, Mother Nature herself. Every sweet thing has a bitter end. The flame died, You pulled away from me You hid away in your sacred garments And went back to reside in the temple of pretence.
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