THE SWEET SYNCOPE
I don't know; who is that, often fills the
seclusion with passion bloom,
a damp emotion, slowly
smoldering day
and night,
whose touch, reacts as sting of sweet
toxic fang, an heavenly pain
goes through the
cell to soul,
the combustion of whose lips; confuses
the consciousness, whose eyes
have that the stakes;
life remains
on the
spiny edge, who is that; weaving a
lattice in the body; by a secret
treaty with the dream,
who seeks to
seize my
masculinity; as predator himself
becoming prey, this is an
opiate or any
fascination,
it's land
or sky beyond recognition, after meeting
her; I do not remember
anything - - -
