Turbines spin dominion.
The seductive hum
of articulate current
promises heaven.
Dour knaves rouse jaded monks.
Seasoned moths know better
than to singe wings in fire.
Burnt skin skies
flush my love's eyes
weeping cinders.
No politics or apology,
I'm in love with this world.
It blooms bright
as skin burns.
All turmoil,
turbines' hum,
washed away by
warm blood.
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