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Crimson Soulprints (Of Orwell and the Goddess).

Seduce me, stop
me at the dotted line.
Tease me, advertizing
for what awaits
if only I would sign,

bloodletting
through signature ink,
my crimson
soulprint.

First a refuge
then a mistress,
to a sorceress,

crystallis now,
approaching goddess…

So, you know:
fuck.
What the hell
is wrong
with me?

Inevitable
unless I manage
to integrate this.

Orwell
was not paranoid enough.

Tempting: her vow
regarding my freedom
through slavery…
Her seductive whispers:
“Just trust me.”

Trust.

Why not?
No stranger to insanity.
So weak
before such beauty.

So perhaps I deserve
this: whatever it proves
to be,

whatever this is…

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