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She

She sits cross-legged in a jaunty angle
Lips blown out in a taunting pose
Beautiful and sleek, she’s the winter primrose
Waiting to lock your soul in a deadly mangle.

She moves to the rhythm of your fantasy
A bold and beautiful Mata Hari
Transcending you to heights with the alchemy of ecstasy
While leaving you your emotions to alone carry.

She is the cross-hair inscribed in your head
Robbing you of vision and inspiration’s thread
For her sake you sold your daily bread
Incurring for yourself calamities ahead.

With head thrown back and poison on your lip
You sit in sorrowful silence dwelling on the evil of she
Alas! Readers let me give you a tip
That bewitched idiot is me.

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