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Clouds
batiste sheer
reach wispy fingers
caressing the opaline moon,
While the sky
weeps diamonds.
Hypnotic
the suicide of falling stars.
Shackling my sight,
to the balefire of these distant wraiths,
who die before my eyes.
Dead leaves
skitter obituary cross my feet.
Each one a posthumous parchment
of summer past.
In the chilly poignant air
they sing the eulogy
of autumn.
~
© Sharon (Leaway56@aol.com)
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