On the slow come down my voice is mumbled. In a dead wave dream I am humbled to be the one, your loving sun. Bending light beneath the trees near the moss scratching bark absorbing softly underneath. Spitting solvents cracking skin. I hope to surface on a melanin trip. Echo this ageing, suspend my mind and we carry on with rite and pyre. While vision is shadowed, dress me up. Put me down tonight, am I in vogue?
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