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In dulcet tones she preaches from the pews.
She builds a bridge of fairytales and lace
and dreams a troll beneath it; on her face
are lips that smile and lips that pout: two sets.
While one may cozen, watch its twin accuse
and then deny the words so any trace
is nothing more than memory, a space
where questions grow, and so do epithets.
Her world is sand and sugar; any threats
of storms are met with trembles and retreat
but only from the torso, while her feet
dig deeper in with stylish pirouettes.
A spiral with no anchor is a line
that draws itself apart, in swift decline.

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