Streams and Vapours

There is poison in this life, I myself have written out a few prescriptions; there is also love in this life, and I myself have cashed in a few inclusive inscriptions

And for all that poisonous beauty, of spoilt love, there is ever more of the call of lust for all to fall back upon

I head down into the implicitly pink morning mist of the valley below

There is a warm certainty about letting oneself become lost, in the vagueness of what I take to be the last rites, of loves poisonous raptures

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