Repair

You’re not the tea type, to me. Ancient you aren’t.

You think you are. But I think you’re raspberry hot chocolate.

Take this endless cup. With my reckless invitation.

Delve. Repair into the wild, earthen past and the rich insanity ahead.

We, hot chocolates in hand, casting our cares. Setting a spell.

The Door

I mean for you to become as the ether
Where I, with unwilling wings
Content not to soar, reach
Or grasp
Dance in the green, green grass

I cast a spell upon your senses
Where I, with unyielding heart
Serenity’s scent on my smile
And your ears straining
Sing and you’ll not taste a note

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