There is a name that I know,
placed lightly on miscarried tongues
and there it lounges faithfully so
till embracing lovers' songs are sung.
Often used to bait the weak,
known to poison holy breath,
a secret that the modest keep,
the sultry, steaming, kiss of death.
Yes there in our bedsheets lie,
one more than your eyes can see,
hidden in the yearning sighs
his calling circles endlessly.
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