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His Beauty

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Gods tears just stopped falling. The leaves on the trees hang warn-out. Quiet, husky groans of pain roll throughout the off-white sky and moss, poisoon ivy, and lucky clovers flicker almost silently in the ever so lite wind. Each green so brilliant. Every black, deep almost depressing. Any picture taken could never enfisize the detail sketched carefully by this infinit hand on the paper on which he draws. Beauty now, can never be pictured as it is at this moment in time. As I empty talent on to these careful listening lines. Piano notes dance through my ears create a melody so sweet. They so delicately illistrate what i sum-up as life, starring me straight in the eye.





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