Distilled into the smallest of things to me,
You...
Like moonlight blown by wind,
And the moment when the clouds
Rip gently in their haste
To reveal something... imbued,
Something other.
I live in the treetops,
I see higher things in my windows,
Though they are paintings incomplete...
Yes, you know the saying,
Absence makes the heart grow...
~~Fiddler 07/03/2003
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