The Dreamers
The sleeping sensual head lies nearer than her hand, but secret and remote, an impenetrable land. Each, in the hardening crystal a prisoner of pride, abstractedly caresses the stranger at his side, duality’s abyss unspanned by desire, reason’s cold salamander scatheless in the fire. She hears the sound of midnight that breaks like a sea, and leans above the sleeper as secretive as he.
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