Face
The tyrant wind that blows
the temperate thorns that twist
they trespass upon my mind
like a gliding invisible mist.
The weary ashes that scatter
the fallen leaves of time
they decay in eternal hunger
searching for reason and rhyme.
The pleasure wrought in troubled cries
the remembrance of precious grace
they abide in silent thought
as darkness deep upon the face.
-Nicole Dyer
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