The Chaste Tree

Lucid dream
 When I was young they had no faces
Eggs
 Smooth as nog
 Strain to convince
Me or you?
 To run from hurricane fire inside
The walls of that house
 Carry on austere reflection
We are crystallic
All their irises
Black maelstroms
Keep face
 Of course I have known what you are doing
Avoided that gaze
 There are more vital veins I am satisfied
But must I wake you to shake you?
Or is it I who
 Becomes the ascetic?
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