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Patrice Jones Jul 2016
West of nowhere, East of nothing,
directly in the middle; an anomaly has been born.
A galaxy in her own right, a star in her true form.

In stellar nurseries compressed the matter and frequency
which made the core of her being and the corona of her beauty.
To the left is void, to the right is eternity,
directly ahead is he; both together in the middle.
Binary stars bound by heliocentric law,
all else revolving in their gravitational well.
They make love over and with the earth
as tadpoles fly through paisley skies,
bound on by iridescent solar winds procured by her painted lips;
circling a black hole in which all of everything is the beginning of nothing.
On the event horizon is spoken the law, stretched and pinched into pureness, eternally devoured into oblivion.
Which the sweet flavor of is relished by the infinite being of darkness that stretches ever on.
Only to reappear in the farthest reaches of the universe,
the whole of the law spread out into the cosmos.
Her name is Andromeda, and what she wilt, she does.

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— The End —