Terry Manns

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Fallen Beauty
Amber eyes, glowing softly,
Form and face of quiet frailty
Voice of once such golden timbre,
Worn away to just a whisper
The Shape Of Words
The shape of words in Autumn is different from other seasons
Remarks are brittle and dry, turning to dust on the tongue
Deeply colourful in their death throes,
The skeletons of beautiful things picked clean by crows.


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5/11/2021 9:42:53 PM #