Mystery

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Mystery

Diamonds, in clear and glassy splendor,

Never rest, but burn eternal in their song.

All that is gold remains molten,

Dripping around ivory neck or encircling

Graceful finger.

All that seems is other,

From depth to height;

All is as the glance

Of the woman you will never know

No matter how entranced you are

By curve of lip, hip, or gently

Flowing hair all red-brown-gold and raven

Going grey and gone

To the great dismay of that prison house heaven

Called your soul.

Richard Van Ingram

9 December 2011

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Richard VanIngram 4 years ago from San Antonio, Texas Author

Thanks, Joseph.


Joseph Tages 4 years ago

Nice. And very true.

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