In starts up the staircase, in fits to the room,
as swathes of ocean meet, melt and form again.
In measures, colours decrease in the steam,
as in my roof-top white sheet lightning dream.
Catacomb village, sandlewood your skin,
I'm your tether's end, you're my everything.
Oh honey biscuits, when I sensed you'd outdone me,
could have forged up the mountain, I left for the forgery.
Striking a claim for us, apply the flame to us, softly.
It's a delicate business, and you know just how to charge me.
Is that something taking shape, is that something taking flight?
So carried away, lightening, sheets of white.
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