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the good hurt by Timothy WilsonShe’s enigmatic
Puzzling keen wits and the clarity of a late summer’s bog
The only spirit without the translucence of crystal waters
And I ‘m stumped
She embodies perfection
The ambiguity of the temptress
So compelling me to love with the darkest of loves
Drawing me like moth to flame
Rendering me
Useless
A mindless drone
A formless puddle
She’s above the gods
And I nothing more than captivated
Compelled
Rendered
Longing
Lustful
Hell to moral behavior
Hell to betraying our better nature
IF anarchy allows for our being together
Than to hell with order
To hell with society
The angel’s hair sways
Obeying the gentle breeze
Brushes my skin
Disrupts my sanity
And forces me to grasp tighter to reality
I’ve never wanted to know another soul the way I want to know hers
Yet here I sit, tamed and accustomed to propriety
Torn confused and bleeding
Heaven sits next to me and couldn’t be further out of reach
She’s enigmatic
And I’m undeserving 08/26/2013 Posted on 08/27/2013 Copyright © 2025 Timothy Wilson
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