Solid room cold but with an unescapable heat I feel the smoothness of your secret There can be no fire in here Pressure of glass tinkling in a different continent Buzzing of narnia and promises. My senses molten on the stones Shiny as a seers pool of forgotten sentiment Softness never pervading the bitter bars Body rigid, skin scrubbed and waxy Hair scraped tight Enter.

© 2004 Natasha Dawn

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