Sill Life Gray
To lose with grace
Is the only way to win
When
The weather is slow
Morning a still-life gray
A promise of snow
Someone moving away
Then
An unknown face
Looking as simple as sin,
Is a mirror of features longing for shape
Formless as shadows wandering lost
Turning to ice in the night time frost
Covering borders a cold unbroken cape
Like a promise made that does not know
When
To lose with grace
The weather is slow
An unknown face
Is the only way to win
A promise of snow
Then
Morning a still life gray ***
Poetry by Chaucer Whethers
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Written on 2024-11-27 at 01:26
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