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Rose

stuck between shelves

of history—of romance–

she stares beyond me;

I can tell by her glances

of reality, short, but there.

a thousand words an instance

each falling from her lips/her hair

as if to say

“I’m here, can’t you see me?”

And I do,

with eyes wide

to try,

desperately,

to hold onto her brilliance;

the brilliance of a never-darkening eclipse,

halo’d by those rays of thoughts

that,

somehow,

leave her beauty

to be put,

unheard,

in my ink.

“A rose may wither,

a moon may slither,

a sun may fall,

and the stars may dither,

but constant are these words

that will never live up to Beauty.”

Music From Another Room
tumbling race

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