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Blustery twilight standing atop the grassy knoll
The withered, gnarled oak casts it's branches like long fingers in the direction of the wind
The dying wheat bends forth spewing grains across the ground.
My gray thinning hair splays across my vision as the black coat wrapped around me fans out like a cape below my knees
The old oak creaks and groans with the wind
"Okay I shall tell you again," I almost whisper
"Golden brown it was. It flowed much like the wheat before us. The windows of the soul were ever changing. Gray as a wolf's mane on a good day, but on the best when I could see her love they were as bright blue as the heavens above and shone like a starry night. Her skin as smooth as silk. Her smile lit up my world more than the brightest day. Our hands fit perfectly together."
The oak creaked with a longing. "I miss her too."
I look up on the tree, my old skin much like the gnarled being before me.
Below the once mighty tr
Written By: Bradford E. Hibbard
The foundation begins to shake
Wisps of dust splay through shafts of dimming light
Maniacal laughter harkens his presence
Rusty crimson ribbons flow from the mirrors of the soul
What thrives on fear and grievous sin may yet dwell within
Forces a change
The twisting nether, away from the others is where I reside,
Whimpering, begging for what was shattered to be made whole once again
Whispers speak of wroth, vanity, sadness, and hate
Glimpses of another life without control
Cracked and broken
The seamstress begins to mend
When the tears are almost stitched her world rumbles
She fades to the darkness whilst the master foils her plans
Lightly moving toward the crowd
The air of exuberance always surrounds
Uplifting spirits through thoughtful praise
He envelopes the inner being in love despite the deepening abyss
Reminders of the cost of others' sins
causes his vision to wave an
Volpi.You will find that the story you tell
is very rarely your own. In Lucca,
even the smallest pebbles
breathe in the warm sunlight.
Knotted stones and cobbled roads
beat out a paper-dry heartbeat heat
my city breathes in and out,
inhales sparrow air.
It's writing a story.
You are the pen.
You will find that in Lucca
the daisy chains forge fire
in side streets and back alleys.
Teenagers intertwine. Tell me,
odd flower, are you still closed?
Here we are colored wax;
the heat of the city melts us.
We run into each other, rhapsody
of pigments. Operas are our specialties.
Open up; feel the reds.
If not, try and see them. There is a place
of deep knife marks, a street
long as midnight
you may learn something there.
Valentina's voice glimmers like red wine.
You may enjoy intoxications. Still,
know alcohol has no story
and will swallow your own.
Find the sign with the wolf on it.
You'll know the place. Epiphanies ring true as church-bells.
Lucca still guides the wanderers
to well sp
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