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In the stillness of her room
She sat with crepe of every hue;
And pictured each an unknown bloom
For which she’d bring to light.
Tearing, cutting, twist and fold
Fragile paper—color bold--and
Each would have a center—gold
Defying mask of night.
Recalling forms within her mind,
She forms the petals—every kind
In patient detail, every line—
Impostors she creates.
Stems, leaves and even thorns
At her hands, so real were born, and
Even Earth was soon to mourn—the
Charlatans of fate.
Hours passed, this lonesome day
While paper gardens on display
Breathing life of ease, defrayed--
Of artist’s willful spite.
Complete deception now her feat
Sprays a fragrance natural sweet,
That bees and birds will try to eat
In longing, hunger flight
Then by and by at midnight’s hour,
She brings outside each handmade flower,
And celebrates her godly power--
In glorious disdain.
Yet sadness lives as well in dreams;
As truth is always what it seems;
And lonely always finds its means,
To melt them in the rain.
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