Maybe it was the ricketyion of the night. Maybe the sourness of glimmer. The tasty unflurried night Serene after the filthy stares. Imperfection. Tenderness swells finished my veins. Light unspoken touch, Fingers trickling through my skin. Without misgiving for a reason, This unspoilt is. We further are. Ultimate comfort in a question-less moment. The cold imperfect night Warms my heart. Inexplicable night. To excuse would be to rush. Sense is made Through the dark eye And sweet lips Of imperfection. On this night, Calendars do non wait with argus-eyed look, Encouraging movement. They lowlifenot control moment into minute. The foregone is an illusion. God, wherefore degrade us of perfection? For its thoughts lie inside my heart Its breath lay upon my skin Its practiced lay within my ears. Though my eyes whitethorn close, though my eyes may open The same cud remain equal Manifested thoughts only rise true. To those who see imperfection in this; Only see imperfect eyes. Perfection is possible. Perfection is you.
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