A story is time

In my realm, love runs feral,
Yellow eyes and lathered grim,
Ripe with heavy fruit and envy.
Good stories cannot be smoked,
And words paint a drug to the mind,
Inconspicuously clad into tongue.
Life flows river-swift and I stay fluid.
I rule all crevasses of water and mud,
I paint all storm and wind alike,
I cloud the day and dawn the night,
Still heart runs air and fire and clay
And I succumb to its mighty endeavors,
In shreds and bits of inner gratitude.
If I stay alive on the shore of you,
Then I slowly die on the sea of me.

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