Following the flow. The icicle melts, no faster than the sun and shade, whose coy play encharm it. The water sinks, no further than the soil and sky, whose wild thirsts engulf it. The cloud wisps, no fresher than the breeze and eyes, whose inter lace enrobe it. And the comet tides, no fuller than the snow and swoon, whose tiger laps entail it

Every sensual inch

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