25
Upon your pliant wax of languor,
Behind the shadows of your smoke,
I saw your fire, swift in its glamour,
And burnt my fingers in your glow.
Your wax was changing shapes and traces
Of man and woman and a child.
Your fire would mix them all -- erasing.
Now I don't see you with my eyes.
My shadows left me for your shadows.
My shapes are molded from your shapes.
With fingers burnt and eyesight failing,
I can't forget and can't escape.
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