Thursday, May 21, 2015

The Cold Owl Comments

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Cold, yielding, yet wishes to be undaunted, from the sorrow laden
that he forfeits. Ruthlessly he cries, flightless
he tries, but still is sitting, never flitting.
From that hunched shadow with the thousand yard stare that lies before him. No word spoken here, and not a single token from the moon are bequeathed to the owl.
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