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A penciled rose,
dripping rain
through the tears in its leaves
and the wilts in its petals,
are shaded lines,
drawn in confusion,
in anger,
in a want for something steadfast.
A shadowed face,
turned to the sky,
with arms raised,
with heart broken,
with the wind playing in its hair.
Behind the scenes
sits the puppet master,
the pen, his weapon,
the paper, his kingdom,
the strokes, his air.
And he sees it not a coincidence,
that his feelings,
his secrets,
his fears,
lay darkened on a white landscape.
Not hidden in the beating folds
of his heart,
but in the gray-black lines,
beneath a steady hand
and a tired soul.
A substance,
once holding everything back,
now displays through time
all he once was,
all he now is,
all he will be,
through a penciled rose
and a shadowed face.




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