In graceful dance of delicate steam,
I am exhorted to sip this deep dark drink,
once in sticky cobweb, Jabberwock made me scream,
horrible emptiness in a non-stop blink.
Understood, as it was, the tongue of my pain,
your cloudy smile showed that it was not the clove,
neither the cinnamon, nor cardamom, nor blurange stain,
insipidly anxious, the tottery swindle I clove.
An odd amalgam startled my ground,
bittersweet melancholy through Anubis' twilight,
embalming my doubts I enjoyed my flight,
within sighs your tenderness I had found.
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