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Apr 2014
Tinctures of orange beam around
the stuffy air

Every thing is still,
and dark emerald

The suns yoke at high noon
casts a fiery shade
over vast valleys
rolling into eternity

The roses wilt as they bake,
crisping under the ever glorious
rays, creeping from vermilion
to chocolate.
There is a bit of a seasons theme running here.
Written by
Liz  London
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