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From Briar shorn and cut to shape,

its coarse smoothed worthy to take

the gentle curve of elegant drape;

a black swan, its beak waiting

for lips to join and draw its sweet

scented breath, each kiss flaring

to glow and plume the fiery heart;

nestled in the bowl of his hand

polished by years, inseparable

until it is smoked no more;

left in its rack, like a ghost you

can touch, a treasure laying smiles

and sad with such ease.

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