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weight of shadows
cracked reflections

hunched, humbled
clenching forlorn wants

oblivion beseeches a cloak
of velvet
to hide within its folds
the truth

illusory venerations
blighted fantasies

of our

sweet minuet

Editing stage: 


rustle tapestry visions
a dream or morn
caught livid


the sky today
is Rayleighs blue
I feel softness in the hot
hand of sunlight
the sounds of city
pouring through the channels

memories hop from stone to
admiring the golden depths
the pooled deep

swift turning vortices
the dance
the keywound
jewelry box

like lifes secret treasure
the grove
of shape and shadow

Oh dancing the two step across the page,
this has rhythm, and style, how I enjoyed it,
well written poem.

Love Ann.

"The image of yourself which you see in a mirror Is dead,
but the reflection of the moon on water, lives." Kenzan.

a steamer waiting room at an old resort landing I did a great photo shoot..she was tiny ..attractive with short pixie hair and great eyes....long was cold...we would write on typewriters..listening to bryan ferry and dancing at Deerhurst before Shania Twain was discovered there..she worked with some other girls in the upper office...showing management about....a different time.....lately been online with some other women....delving talking...people are brilliant but have their mad max...sometimes restless haunted and well defended....Brilliance though....I never ws bright like them.....but looking back how they liked my Shine..thinking how madness is beyond even they at times....way out there.........way out there...

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