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A Battered Photograph

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Her eyes still shine,
Though the photograph is battered.
Her smile still catches me breathless,
Even through the tearstains.

The worn photograph falls,
It flutters to the floor,
Just as it has,
Many times before,
As I set my heart adrift,
Upon a raft of heartbreak
That endlessly bobbles
And causes my soul to quake.

Her hazel eyes look up at me,
From their spot on the floor,
Her smile still teases,
As I gaze down,
And though my hear still flutters,
At the sight of her face,
Her heart’s too far gone,
For me to feel its beat,
That God crafted delicately,
But was not meant for me.



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