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“A lonely face aglow on high. You mean the moon. A flower, red, has caught his eye. A rose in bloom. He cannot touch her, though he tries. In darkness glints the tears he cries. I see mere stars; you boldly lie. Nay, poetry to draw your sigh. I am immune.” — Richelle E. Goodrich
A lonely face aglow on high.
You mean the moon.
A flower, red, has caught his eye.
A rose in bloom.
He cannot touch her, though he tries.
In darkness glints the tears he cries.
I see mere stars; you boldly lie.
Nay, poetry to draw your sigh.
I am immune.