Even if the winding of a clock could turn back time
the heart would still beat furious beyond the sync of the tick-tock
and with light like speed emotions would spill and flood
the trenches of these veins for this impression still remains-
that there is nothing to be sought between
these twisted sheets and hollowed dreams from which
reality has revealed itself to undoubtedly gel such forms
and erase inhibitions of lust and scorn what words
so dutifully chosen now void, buried deep beneath hot
gasps of breath, these actions throttled by the chokes
of sincere risk and fear of losing connection-
a hold much greater than passion.


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