Octaves Of Rum

There is no light or raptures just a few octaves of rum no choiring angels in my sleep with proses of songs from your photograph hung Only your fingers lingering embracing me with wanton lips beneath sins of carnal pleasures on the curvature of my spine as your thighs caress my loins On sheets of satin and your green eyes just a few octaves of rum as dawn give rise to wanderlust on the edge

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