He stands still, anticipates
her gentle brushstrokes.
Below the dusk of ages
timeless art is revealed,
stripped away to expose
a talent, not her own.
Eyes, fresh with tears,
"There is magic in you, yet."
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A verse or a line
jumbles my thoughts
I stumble and stutter
unable to form
tribute more fitting
a sacrifice worth
words on the table,
your delicate rhyme.
Do I speak of your eyes,
azure pools of affection?
Ponder your smile or even
the ...
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