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The Birth of Venus
by Christopher Ingham

She had, it seemed, always been there,
Somewhere hidden deep beneath the images
Of the words he read from time to time,
As he would idly flick from page to page.

Then, slowly, almost imperceptibly,
He heard, no felt, the voice of the woman
Imprisoned within the shell of her words.

The shell opened and she rose before him.
Botticelli's Venus, ethereal,
Refined, elegant. She drew him to her
Gently and his blood thickened with desire.


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