Spa, by George Chow
I swap the heat mist to the coldness still.
The quiet flow take me to the ethereal door.
Where to realize without her is the foam of mares.
Then repeats in this circle never see the parallel.
In the pool of heat makes me aware of the hyper text.
I can hardly stay long for more tempted feels.
Then the refreshing cold take me to her sense of love.
When my skin shrivel by the sooth lasting lonesome rythm.
Time forward me of her for our kin is like the spa.