The book of you
My greedy fingers,
tenderly stroking, carefully caressing
delineate the seashell cover
of gold, white and blue,
awaiting subtle openings
in the pages of your unfinished book.
Through the table of contents I travel,
rumors I see, a spring-dawning of old
and a lonely winter too long,
stories are whispered
of mansion forlorn and unfinished road
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