When love is a shimmering curtain
Before a door of chance
That leads to a world in question
Wherein the macabrous dance
Of bones that rattle in silence
Of blinded eyes and rolls
Of thick lips thin, denying
A thousand powdered moles,
Where touch to touch is feel
And life is weary whore
I would be carried off, not gently
To a shore,
Where love is the scream of anguish
And no curtain drapes the door.

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Thomas McCulloch
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