In the gaze of the other

"My mistress' eyes are nothing…"

Childhood’s Forest

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Her honey-bliss lips, newly bee-blessed, set real people free.

All who tasted described a low grade sympathy lighting dark,

dubiously melding wind and song, fear and safe homecoming. 

 
And then we grew to us, no longer children speaking true lies.

Stories told tied us to the road, beat-boot trodden dusty paths 

leading home to meet two strangers, once lovers kissed true.

 
Now flash-blue sparks sidelong, like ghosts slipping peek-bye.

Glass tags filter your image as pastel strip-thin pressed clouds

spied at vision’s corner, blowing kisses once given free people.

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