Old texts: Beauty Rising

Good morning my dear and yet not for how I loath and protest the sun for her onward glances that doth blind and rob me of the sight of you night visions hath bestowed on me so kindly so sweetly that I fear otherwise I should never wake. Blaspheming consciousness that does not hold you in my arms rather recalls an absence there. Who may dare to call it reality when the only thing real and corporeal cannot be found tangible within one’s grip nothing discovered pangs of matter

Cruel morning! That wakes my love and bids the double dream leave leave leaving behind not but the sand man’s dust where once was a man as true as any. Desperate visions that take in their departure all good that they hath brought. Back to bed to find anew new thoughts of you to fuller view.


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