in half sleep she’d see the leaf,
’twas difficult to tell the brand,
though she had always liked
the earthen colours of the maple leaf.
His molten lava geyser like and hot
would hide the luscious hues
and, through eternal flow, bestow
multiple layers of opaque bernaise,
until the weight could overcome
and plunge the centre to its doom,
into a slippery grave of wild and wet
as in the end of ends he’d pulverise
in battle heat and sounds of near frisson
all traces of its bold and floral origin.

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