badger11 Posted January 30, 2011 Share Posted January 30, 2011 (edited) Picture her room so free of bric-a-brac, and memories in black and white now brim the flowery bin, until like butterflies softly his lies flutter to flame. Yet hear within this warming glove a sigh unwraps the hour, shivers the light. Like snow it drapes her face: a pulse of solitude. It's then she spies a silver trail, a straying snail, so snug in brittle shell it knows no sigh, no lover's pride adorns its crisp demise. Find Mary's room so cleansed of bric-a-brac. Edited March 23, 2011 by badger11 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
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