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Rated: E · Poetry · Mystery · #2178971
The poetry that rhymes, the one that thinks
The Wolves unleash the howls on the moon,
Setting forth the bringer of chaos to my midst,
Tis’ quite exubrent to see through crystal eyes so soft and pale,
For I wait for the nix to cease,
So the white fog of day can set me a new,
For only the footsteps of creation can save me from oblivian.
© Copyright 2019 Charles Smith (smittycle7 at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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