Chalices
Each warm breath
You serenely pour into my mouth's chalice,
I drink,
To the core of my being,
As if it were ichor from immortality's spring.
Each warm breath
I gently pour over the lips of your chalice,
You sip,
To the source of your existence,
As if its draught might slake time's drought.
11/22/10 - (2)
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