The curse is not how bright she be, or funny she is, not the
life of any parts, yet in her is some aspect of something I cannot ignored, beauty
yes, and yet not all, no more than the petal tips of a flower is, when truth
lie deep inside, that place, that heart where the pollen starts, needing to get
stirred up, drown out, for all to see, and this is where the curse is, the
depths into which a man must go with no promise he might unfurl himself, always
fearful once he delves too deeply, he might find no way to flee, he, me, caught
up in that pleasure palace, drunk on its nectar, so blinded by her inner beauty,
he, we, me, might never seek to leave, she holding us captive without knowing
she does.
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