Three silver moons wrapped around
her fingers, demurely bathing
in the morning mist, lips
pressed against the stained glass,
candied prison, melting the heart,
steeling the nerves on the turn
of the knife, in the distance,
a keen-eyed reflection, divine
by the rights of men, stands
warily, beckoning ancient vessels
to port, silently, across
amber waves, into the jagged
graveyard of the sea.
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