Predictor

A still ocean, no longer rumbles against the earth,
A dead sun, no longer provides us gravity,
A deceased moon, no longer gives us light,
Spoiled oxygen, no longer gives us life.

I pull the waves inward with logical embrace,
I spit gas into fiery pits and nickel with intelligence,
I comfort the darkness with unwieldy compassion,
I exhale life into her broken lungs to be,
By only what we can see, tragedy.

Myself will not be given away,
I can, will, can take her astray,
The darkened days, of gloomy grays,
I will remain us.

Perfection, mythical,
Her placement be not,
Realistic it is before me,
Always it is without me,
Direction be driven, unforced,
Deeply chiseled into her heart of gold,
Guidance toward me, be her own,
Idle hands of me, the predictor,
No more than prophetic suggestions,
Fall from a pure heaven into the grips of rugged skin,
About the body of beauty,
Be sentineled by my competent eyes,
Abolish lust, for else exists beyond its promises,
Intimacy to be molded by my idle hands,
Passive advances break notice,
Sip disgust from the tongue of your current chaos,
Hand me your heart, on a plate,
I will protect you.

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