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Smudges

Somebody must have spilt ink on the page,
Gray as ghosts, paint still slick
And the smudges must have formed the shape
Of wings, coincidentally, like crows. They stain
The dusk sky, hiding a storm.
Surely, they were not meant to be there
Circling sweet shelters of rustic glory,
Picture-perfect nostalgia of time unknown.
Clearly, the focus is flowers, sparks of bright color
With the dull horizon dimmed and faded
To let the brightness shine.
These night-bird creature on wings
Calling the eye from splendor
Are a clumsy mistake.
See how they are misshapen so?
Crooked, uneven, overgrown.
They have no shadows on the dirt
For shadows need no shadows.
Like a circle of deadly dark smoke
Rising above dreams and peace,
They can only be a mistake.



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