Sleeps a diminutive creature of scepticism and scrutiny.
Its wings of chrome and cracked ashen leather crave chance,
For the cool updrafts of mystery and the warm winds of salacity.
But the covetous beast feels only the thorns of trapping delusions;
A farcical masquerade; a locked prison of illusion,
To which the absent paramour, alone possesses the key.
Id Ethan..
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