She dances in the silhouettes of the moonlight,
Guides the path of the fireflies on the bog.
Her hair entangles the passioned air,
And cuts through the mire of the fog.
Her form like a sire,
leveling the playing field to dust.
Her heart scares most men,
Passionate depths are her sacred trust.
Whimsy and sass are her seductive defense.
My lips are dry,
It scares me to pursue her,
Following my heart,
I need that push.
She's not perfect but irreplaceable.
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