Robert Miles
Seven Wonders from her Lips
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These times. These places.
Ingrained softly left in,
Comforting the slaves as they
Pull themselves from within,
To be marched through tubes
And trains their feet to
Task complete with no
Prior instruction.
But she's a melody,
A feather,
The shine on my spoon.
She's the taste that you long for,
The one you sing songs for,
And there's seven wonders from her lips.
Share my damp clothes,
Bring me a plant and a book.
Rummage my shelves
And take what you need.
Cross out my word spills
With the edge of your tongue,
From which seven wonders form,
To rest on your lips.
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