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Rated: E · Poetry · Philosophy · #2157329
The impressions a person can leave on another is almost like a map of love and love lost.
His lines,
mercy drawn and fading
defined by sun and storm.

His lines,
drawn over and again
are thin and worn.

His lines,
are spoken with feather touch
and smoke.

His lines,
are mountains and valleys.
A garden which to go.

The depth of his lines,
the compass
rose to grow.


original: unknown
draft: 05-05-2018
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