The air pressures from within,
the heart falters, hesitates and nearly stops
this is the darkest hour in the night
the one which gains access to tired souls
harvest time, end-of-it-all-time
the soul of the living cowers in the corner
the tired one, the one who feels relieved
opens her arms wide to the seducer
this aged gentleman, made from bones
yes, bones like laces, is nimble-footed
in a Tango like none other he holds her soul
swirls it around, kisses its limp hand
the soul feels relief, at long last Mr. Right came
Originally Posted On Site: 2009-07-19 10:01:58
Last Login: 05.22.12
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