poetry

beautiful fools

pale, under winter’s twilight
love’s lace-gown apparition, silent
tho, its flowing aura, glowing
blurred, at the edges
of blind-beggary’s
ivory-eyed sight
like a counterfeit memory
the hues, bleeding
into
each another
reaching out–
into
the cold evening
my fingers’ warm skin
passes through–
night’s frozen breath
where once we’d been
on the hillsides–
on the green knolls–
where two
beautiful fools
had passed
our days
dreaming
in summers’
sunshine

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Eric

I've come to write.

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