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Arturs Lusis

On the Isle of Sky

On the Isle of Sky

dry fog lying on my palms
holding my ankles
dry fog in my mouth

as I reach for your back
to caress it with clouds of silk
I've woven from the wetness of my skin
from words deemed unspeakable
deft truth and mimicry of angels
that have risen from dark sod of the murk wasteland
where we were scattered once

it had taken our voices
the clearness of your eyes
it had been an illness
it deceived

then we were deceased

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