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Lost and found — two tremulous players;
Their imperishable feast: yearning to be consumed.
Their chronicles: the confinement of restricted pleasures
Throughout time and guise, repeatedly resumed.

Baited breath awaits as ocular orbs observe,
As sweet wrappers rustle, critics’ poison pens poised,
Purposed for the passion-playing duo of sublimely aligned souls
In suspended animation, temporarily restrained.

In the obscurantic low-glow of purpling prose-red footlights,
Soft-whispered scripts stream gently from players’ lips,
Absorbed then muted by silence fallen beyond the fourth wall;
And onto them do smiles softly slip — both lovers’ concerns eclipsed.

And so the stage is set (pantalooned legs and hearts may break),
Quill strokes unsullied by trappings of the mask-less mundane,
As Final Call rings out an appeal, as strings and wings are plucked,
As curtains draw, exiting page left and right, the saga unfolds as told.

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