Damien's Lament

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She’s sleeping. I watch her toss and turn, my stomach does the same. I’m sure her eyelids are a work of art, and her fingertips are fondant fancies, french tips, fit for my lips. Her face is lonely, without my eyes to keep it compa...

She’s sleeping.

I watch her toss and turn,

my stomach does the same.

I’m sure her eyelids are a work of art,

and her fingertips are fondant fancies,

french tips, fit for my lips.

Her face is lonely,

without my eyes to keep it company,

the wonder of her waking,

is worth the risk of arrest.

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