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A porselain poet, I owe you a maze
Coupled in love, haze and a fist
I walk on a brittle lane of vagabonds

Mirth of eyes, fissures in leaves,
Fractals in fingers, I owe you a hush
In a whisking breath of a fizzog

Minced array of words and wounds
You travel westward on my wrinkles
I wipe your rippling vestiges in disdain

Now we meet, my molten soul and you
Eteched out in porselain prismatics