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the poetry dialogue

A game of words and beauty played out across the intarweb.

Tuesday, October 16, 2007

The Night Died When...

The light brand pierced the soft black vale
which bled orange and pink and blue.
The bright fire drove deep into the sky breast
as the nightingale despairing cooed.
The newborn woke, alone and afraid,
to the light dancing on the wall.
And the soft warm voice of a woman lost
whispered mirth from a dream to all.
Posted by Brad Grenz at 6:04 PM

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