Art, Poetry
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She knows who she is

Seeing her grow from a fawn to a doe

While my heart seems to stir just little more

Like the flick of a page of torn novel

Flicking under the fore and the thumb

Of a hand too steady and yet longing

Ready to snap the twig that carries the weight

 

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This entry was posted in: Art, Poetry

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My name is Michael and during my free time I avoid having a day job. Strangely enough, this gives me the freedom to run this blog. I write just about anything that can be considered art. I also occasionally post articles that may or may not be relevant to the theme of this site. You’ve been warned.

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