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Nectar of the sweetest flower,
we are sick with envy
at your scent that won’t be writ.
One taste of your perfection,
perhaps a tiny sip, less
than a humming bird would take.

Dark abyss, deep, deep
beyond the depths the mortal mind
conceives, embrace us
with your emptiness, that true
dismay of utter night where omens
overtake sight’s sense.

Pan, play your pastoral flute.
Let the music make us mist
that merges with the universe
until the echo fades
and we are invisible
except for that inner light.

Demigods and poets,
hungry beings, hard angled
and indignant, craving
transformation just once
back to the tree
from whence the lumber came.

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