My Mantra (Cravings)
Your syllables are my mantra,
two most repeated intonations,
a rise and a light fall,
that most resonant, sonorous sound.
Your syllables are my whispers
while lying on the lawn,
and I am your wasted, impetuous sundial,
pulling your stars towards my sun,
my frenzied, but devout sun,
with its insidious glow,
though you never take notice to my
or my slothful cravings.
I have lost all decorum,
but I am not a libertine.
I am your manic zealot,
your patron saint.
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