Wednesday, December 10, 2014

my hours twist and turn from crimson to dusty merlot.
My touch is reddening,
and until I received it, my entirety was fresh.
But unfluttering,
unrefined and defined.
There is nothing too small,
but my tenderness paints it large on a background of gold,
and I prize it, not knowing whose soul at the sight,
may unfold.

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