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The Death of the Grape Leaf

It must tell an old tale,
This wizened creature,
Long lived,
Yet still clinging to life by its green fingertips.
A clam shell of color,
Golden from age and wisdom,
A leather hue fighting for reign,
Frayed edges like an old wedding dress,
Used but once.
Skin wrinkled like a dragon’s hide,
A gaping maw hunger for treasure hunters,
To stick unsuspecting fingers inside.
Membrane so thin,
Like translucent butterflies wings,
The creature sits and waits,
Breath abated,
Chain link armor scarred and memorable,
And a crunch to make a rattlesnake shiver,
It relinquishes its hold on life,
As a foot steps down.




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