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Ma...
January 21, 2010
She sits,
as an angel does,
composed,
as pale skin,
contorts over the perfection,
of form,
words flow from my mind,
in description,
yet justice can never be made,
to the dark red curls,
she twists between pearl fingers,
and the smile,
that radiates beauty,
beyond a common plea for happiness,
for she is dear to me,
even while i remain naught but a shadow,
in her dark,
everclear eyes.
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