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A steadfast gust from the slamming of the door grazed the terrain of her peach forearm Her tiny chestnut hairs stood tall as the ancient oak tree towering over their backyard Signs of spring were blossoming While a once euphoric state withered around her Plucking any stimulus from her diminishing being Tears dangled on end of her spider-clumped lashes She faught their release for the journey down her visage would only confirm his twisted exposition How could the beholder of guilt Be the bearer of insult He could accuse of her unfounded infidelity Well knowing his conscience was faulty April rain purifies a soiled seed Instilling deep within her the catalyst for new being A worthy blossom she is and wither she will not

Copyright © | Year Posted 2005

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Date: 3/20/2012 11:06:00 AM
Thank you for adding your spices to the soup Chelsea. I am enjoying reading all the appetizing poetry posted here today. Have a wonderful week. May inspiration hit the tip of your pen and never let go. Love, Carol
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