Spine Chilling BreezeSweet Heresy

Like a jet black stream her hair on her shoulders, A canvas made of silk for the darkness in her eyes. To gaze upon her form is pure, sweet torment, Her voice sweet heresy on my souls hallowed ground. Her hands upon my skin, they burn me like fire, Her breath upon my face lifts my spirit higher. The warmth of her embrace my dream and my desire, And when her lips touch mine, I'm stricken by live wire.
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