Insecure ( a preliminary title)

It is a cold, insecure night,

in a hot, fertile land.

Flesh of African silk,

in a glassy, fair-weather bed.

 

A raw leaking passion,

Just threatening to rust,

Under thick cobwebbed lies,

in want of a good dust.

 

A surface solid,

that seemed  through and through,

On  the verge of renewed destruction,

with each morning dew.

 

A place lofty speeches,

Have become just that,

A layer of fluff,

Above an abundance of stench-ridden-facts.

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