Love, long past,
carved in stone,
hard and false,
colored by time
and memory
both more perfect,
and more broken
than reality, and yet
it is captured,
on display, as if
the vision of your inner artist
was God.
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I cannot seem to break from my short poems. I actually set out to write a longer one this morning, and found this one instead. Alas, writing is only somewhat under my control.
The picture was taken in Venice. You can click on for a larger version.
Tom
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