would it be porcelain,
freed from desire?
perhaps it would
strangle one,
the brightness of
serenity
would it crystalize,
like water,
in the freezing placidity
of limpid dispassion?
perhaps it would
breed of nothing as
a sterilization, as
a flourishing asylum
of infertility
would its enormous,
comfortable,
pellucid tentacles
wrap around one in
gnarly shawls of
wet tranquility?
perhaps it would
decompose one in
the numb quietness,
like the composure of
a corpse
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