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The Door

Summer is slipping toward reminiscence. Moments no longer held tightly. The days are nothing but mist upon the glass. The sunlight no longer burns brightly. Listening to the tides; the mounting anguish along the shore. Limitations brought about frustrations; silently waiting for the knock upon the door.
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Written by
david-w-jones
American
Published
Sep 3, 2014
Lines·Words
9·47
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