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The Shadowed
Hard as the bed in the earth
where a stone has lain —
so rough, so tough, and so cold, —
Winter’s stranglehold
dumb numbs with callous hand.
Musty dusty as smell
of old earth on a vein -
oozing damp through its pores —
Winter’s white blanket is lain,
chilling me to the core
with fine filigree hair;
stealing sight from my eyes.
poem
by
Jonathan Robin
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