And there she sat atop her throne of pottery
With such vehement modesty
And waited for the end to come.
She who did not think she wanted
Yet wanted to leave this luxury she flaunted
Sat whining on the whitish protrusion from the floor.
“What of a wasted life I see
atop this useful pottery
nothing but crude graffiti.”
Swimming below me is the sea
Or what leads eventually the sea to me
So I connect myself to the sea.
On her bottom the frosty air
Made love to feelings from “down there”
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