"Sometimes she is beheld seated on a rock outside her cave, a mere glimmer in the half-dark of dusk or dawn, her lovely face grave and her unloosed hair all about her, blowing the wind, and her lover on his knees by her lap, looking up at her with eyes in which burn all the fevers of the world, his hands tucking flowers in her hair, while overhead creak the ghost batwings as the air darkens round her lovers.
— Feb 25, 2016 07:51PM
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