Moon Poem #2
Oh! To delight this sacred skin.
Trembling hands tongue tied,
knots strained beyond their hold. Thin
resistence, leather hide
gone supple, silky, still.
New wineskins. Who will fill
the holy cup of righteous yearning?
Quench the fire of passion burning?
Loose the rich, torrid symphony
from cauldron where old songs are churning
out prophecies of harmony?
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