The moment ends,

Mindful of the clock

And it’s relentless ticking,

Heedless of the half-smile painted across your face,

The bright luminescence of the sky

And the whiteness of the gulls

Flying far above,

Silhouetted against the setting sun,

Going places I will never.


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A poet driven by the quill, a dreamer of impossible dreams, a lover of that which the world has deemed unlovable. We're all stories in the end. This is mine.

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