A poem simply sounds the bell, of that which words could never tell.


All this,
Brushing against my skin,
The web of Electra,
Issuing from my eternal dynamo,
All this,
I do not know,
But sense as sparks,
Flying in my own darkness,
My soul a canvas for this brushing,
A life support,
Whose blushing flesh,
I dare not,
Cannot know,
Enduring surprise,
For my desire is growing,
In countless ways,
And boundless days,
Yet I am hidden
From mine eyes,
Resting in my knowing.

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