I have a love
for pure,
sentimentally demure
reconnaissance.
The remit to see
after it,
to hear
in sounding
of waves
a collusion,
a solicitous infusion
gullible pans
the body
of my faith.
As when eerie
and leery,
squirm insoluble
chide monstrous
prey to madness.
Faithless fodder
upturns,
in holy spells
of wack a mole hell.
And I can't stop it,
horror chases me down,
lose it lose it
Throw the damn board
oh happy dagger,
misericord.
Then in a count
seven to ten
resumes again
as an irrepressible grace
carrying
tarrying, betide
trailing edges
for kisses
and misses,
sanguine or shred.
Goes straight
to my head.
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