A vision of silhouettes gyrated against the backdrop of the horizon.
The loitering of a far-away dormancy wafted in the distance.
And swaddled in the miasma of the yawning sun,
Autonomy and Clarity made love to Emancipationís quickening pulse.
They both were as wet as that first day of that eight month.
Inundated were they in the salty plasma of their forefathersí blood.
And tangled with determination, they created seminiferous nectar,
To attract the others to the birth of Freedomís hour.
With the thumping of an innate cadence, percolating their loins,
They accompanied their lustful romp with aboriginal declarations of joy.
For as long as they could recall, the specter of bondage loomed.
Autonomy, fettered to obfuscated helotry, weakened with gloom.
But then sagacity came streaming in with the lucidity of dawn.
Clarity unveiled a premonition of repose, buried under the robe of morní.
Those who subjugated the enslaved assented to meet a need.
And the powerful presented the powerless with the adjudication to be happy.
How wonderfully alarming is this thing called Time.
Years of disparity and insignificance, nullified with the twelfth chime.
And to think Autonomy and Clarity went to bed, prostrated with uncertainty.
Today they undulate, exonerating the essence of their names, immodestly.
Their open rendezvous with recognition, removed all of the caked wounds.
As they gingerly nursed the taxed muliebrity of each otherís broken youth.
Then Clarity had no choice but to discerned with unshackled eyes,
That Autonomy was the only inamorata that could share their newly exculpated nights.
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