A Passing Poesy

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My bed, rippled
with waves of warm
morning rest,
gapes at me
with a mouthful
of sweet caress
and dreams,
its teeth toffee
-woolled, feathery
with the sugars
of slumber.

Oh, how hard it is
in the cold of the morning
to shun the lure
of ingestion.

____

© Hayden Westfield-Bell (And all that nonsense)

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