Thursday, December 23, 2010

The winter affection.

Purity, it turns out, is harsh,
Dew-lined lips, but blade-enforced.

The edges won't slice so much as ask,

With each pinked line: am I to pass,
Jabbed, and again--

Yes or no, did I pass?

The answer is certainly certain,
Though in certainty beyond grasp.

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