The winter winds they blow,
Cold with shadowed sorrow.
Winding beauty like a painted brush,
Exquisite and such to your skins soft touch.
Feel the hair stand on end,
Upon your wrist, to a nickel lend.
And brush the noise as quiet will,
Looks throgh a thousand window sills.
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Author:
RSM (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: November 7th, 2026 17:07
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 1
Offline)
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