The trees swayed in marble soil,
my leather arm chair sat silent-
rocking. I held on to a dark cigar
and smoke rings in my visage. Some
woman I had painted as a doll sat
with needle and cloth, she attempted
only to replicate as given, as I had
stolen originality away. I could no longer
feel the fire, tis embers given to another
time. My loins held seeds and roots,
an entire forest of the future held between
my legs- those grapes so pregnant to be
set in wine from some distant cultivation,
from another arm chair, before another fire.
The window faced the wrong way, bending
trees in all perverse predilections, blocking
servants brandishing axes form my gaze.


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