face we wear
grows old and weathered, torn
open by time,
tinted as dawn
like the late
ashen and crimson.
It will no longer
our deepest scars
from the long
sweet lines left
Posted by kind permission of the poet.
We humus-honed flesh-toned matte-finished mortals dwell on the dome of a miracle: a sparkling and…
call it our craziness even, call it anything. it is the life thing in us…
And a poet said, Speak to us of Beauty. And he answered: Where shall you…
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