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There’s something softening about the edge of night,
A place in the Autumnal mind that whispers,
Drumbeats and reindeer bells wash through cloudscapes,
The Moon’s blanket wavering in the night wind.
A song in the heart slowly bends and sculpts air,
Waiting for the physical world to grow into receipt,
The vessel of the mind haunted by starlight unshined,
Lost in the river of time,
Wondering at purpose of depth,
Where the only clear color is love,
Knowing all else is spoilt paint.
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By: Daniel A. Stafford