I could tell you stories about morning skies That held trees wider than the span Of your arms, but this would be a lie. For you would prefer tales about hurricanes That split hulls, rip masts like kites, dreams trapped in rotting galleys splintered on the skin of limestone.
I could tell you fables from deep in the earth Circular as caverns that reach upward to slivers Of light. But you'd prefer tales dark as the stains Of pomegranates on my fingers that awaken The desire of fruit bats from soundless berths, Red as the hunger that drives them into the night.
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