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My love,
You love the fruit of my vines
The sweet intoxication – blood huéd wine
I produce without soil amidst buttes and scarred rocks
With just want, will, and worry from what I have not

To give,
I do, no thoughts weary mine
Rock-dented dour brow which seethes with sublime
Liquor; I languor, but to you I taste sweet
Then consume from my rib the last of my meat

Now ragged, rapéd bones do pierce my side
Through eyes bursted bled blood clots, I see the divine
Who loves the new vintage, the seed from my hand
Placed in the soil my love never planted.


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