window of conscience
I smell the cold and my shoulders straighten. Winter raps at the door, no longer a stranger To flights of leaves, rearranged. For all to whom my greeting comes Each letter steadies my hand Like shelter to comfort me in bitter weather.
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Her shaded eyes, her necklace black velvet, onyx. Anguish she spoke; and he carried on, obsessed As only a young man could. An odd harm...
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