The heart is a soft place

Valleys full of memories 

Pressed deeply into the plush pillow-top shade

Of daisies plucked yellow

To rivers of capillaries pumping diamond-flesh

Tissue like belladonna, breathing mined opal

Handspun to fleeting ghosts

Painting the mirage of ticking towers, passing time

But the cool hand-drawn skin

Is dipping into the shadows, mirrored waters

Stones laid flat against spiraling columns and stained glass windows

To peer into 

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