Quiver

January 12, 2012
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A silhouette,
Sweet sliver of shadow composed not of earth’s onyx entangles,
But of golden locks that stream from the sun’s fiery mane as dawn beckons him over the horizon.
A porcelain marionette,
Amongst the dew dusted delphiniums,
Cast aside in solitary fields beneath a dingy sky of scars.
A vignette,
Tarnished torrent of meticulously crafted recollections not strewn carelessly,
But scattered knowingly along the winds of Aeolus.
A silhouette.





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