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Tuesday Tales Round 11

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The pagan moon rises,
shadows illuminate.
The lady of the wood comes forth
with her sacrifice,
the body small and frail.

She chants her rite.
He feels her ensorcell.
He cannot deny her pleasure.

Her chant echoes
across the silver water.
The blade readies for its play,
moon glow reflects from its edges.
The water bounces in time with her words.

The knife glints in the light
and slices through tender flesh.
The greyed leaves in the water
turned crimson.

He burst forth from the waters,
skin aglow in the moonlight.
Their embrace burns the droplets
from his slickened skin.

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