The Fine Art of Aging

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Some days these fingers ache when holding my writing lead
or perhaps it’s my soul keening, wallowing in woe,
How much more must a heart spill with words in black repose
Does not your fingers bleed when grasping too tight the memory of the thorny rose?

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The Stars Are Prisoners In Your Eyes

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For the stars they are prisoners in your eyes
While luscious lips hold me a captive
Our dancing shadows in gold candlelight
In your warm arms, I am enraptured

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