The lightening-flies shy from the firelight.
Overhead, a heat-swollen sky
kindles blue flame strike on the horizon;
a promise of storms to come.
Basted in sweat:
the form of silhouettes
against a wet black night.
The moon, master of the tides
wields no power over their
passion plays and bodies entwined.
And in the morning
when they wake to the songbird cries
they will whisper bitter treasons
"it was lies, all lies…"

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