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life spills in red ink
 penetrating soft skin
 drawn on a page
 death filled - in a tragedy
 as if the artist is not
 the finisher of the scene I freely play behind 
 this dimly lit veil
 as the author enters
 our romance - unfolding
 beauty conceived 
 in a never ending poem
0
Jul 29, 2014
Jul 29, 2014 at 3:10 PM UTC
My Conceit
life spills in red ink
 penetrating soft skin
 drawn on a page
 death filled - in a tragedy
 as if the artist is not
 the finisher of the scene I freely play behind 
 this dimly lit veil
 as the author enters
 our romance - unfolding
 beauty conceived 
 in a never ending poem
Written by
Jul 29, 2014
Jul 29, 2014 at 3:10 PM UTC
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