Court ladies drift from room to room each step, each glance made with the precision of a trained voice practising scales despite all the feigned boredom on their pale faces beneath the rouge and white powder. You owe them love as a courtesy due. They claim desire as lightening claims its tree. Beautiful as storms, they step from their clothes like locusts strip a field. Surrender brings its obligations. Your victory is to please. Their lips are tax-gatherers, their breasts yielding armies of mouths to feed, their embrace the all-consuming phoenix fire which must never burn low. You are the furnace man, fearing not to satisfy and weary of doing so. Within their cleft is the rage of heaven, the very marrow of the seas.Birth sign: Libra
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