It was a tragedy,
the worst of all kinds
When the man in the
butler suit and with a magic wand
puffed out his cheeks and stopped
the music, mid orgasm
mid crescendo to the high beyond that soaring trumpet
I have that plucked feather look
when the notes kiss y ears
My nape, exposing all that I have
to the buther's knife
I wait for him to take a swing and let gush out my hopes
and dreams. Inot the music, the harmony
of what I call living.
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