Shift
Softness. Her walk, petals graze a sleepy pond. Sparkle. Her eyes, gentle sun on summer waves. Thrashing. This heart, Swirling leaf Surfs autumn gales. And now - winter winds Must singe my face.
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gene16180
My muse can be unseemly and nomadic although she fancies meter and good rhyme, her diligence and output are sporadic, and some may say she’s moving past her prime. At times she’s off consorting with the sages reflecting on existence, as it were, At...
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