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Not moist, red lips


Not moist red lips, nor limpid eyes,

nor subtle undulating flesh,

nor breasts of cream, pink nipples fresh,

nor soft recidivistic thighs,

nor all the strange spasmodic bliss

that lurks within that orifice

where scent of myrrh, breath of the sea,

cause lonely cries of ecstasy


can bind as tightly as a smile,

as firmly as a gentle word.

Exchange excludes, demands defile;

indifference leaves love undeterred.

Those eyes ensnare that recognise

 love is a gift and not a prize.

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