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Nov 2010
How enticing
the scent of woman,
that often quite forbidden fruit.

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That morning smelt of ***
and its dew
trickled thinly down my throat.

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The silence filled the air,
and drowsy,
I listened to that lullaby.

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Noise in the form of jazz.
Beneath my boot
the crunch of dry mud memories.
Written by
Armando A
680
   Swells
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