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The Core

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A frozen limb, its boughs will pierce the night
and daylight too, it has no care for moon
or sun above its freckled face, first light
will see it standing there, its petals strewn.

Those leafy robes that once had circled there
have long abandoned this that braves the cold
And wind and age have razed beyond repair
those fragile ones who tried to keep their hold.

Yet beauty see’st thou in eye it chose
Persistence ought to win a war with grace
From time to time, it seems one should suppose
to choose with mind that which they would erase

Adornments matter none to beauty’s call
If at the core the imperfections fall



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