183

Composure and peace feel like butter rubbed

(after melted) on every cell I have,
every impulse that could quiver when loved,
in sheer delight, each tremor is a laugh:
There is sweetness in the unprocessed thought
that lies on the edge of the fragrant tongue
that laps up the lights of Christmas trees, wrought
with perpetual shimmer, where faith is hung:
Speculaas spaceships repair to the vibes
that coursed through the skin in happier times,
of majestic thoughts and meaningful tribes
that shaped away from difference  ruthless rhymes:
The white lights are joyous, the air brilliant;
true meanings are scheming and never meant.
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