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Writer's pictureCarsten Sprotte

Emerald Eyes


It was bareness and black she'd wear,

so that I'd witness her emerald eyes so rare.

Or maybe to be better seen by them,

Their keen gleam peering like a gem

into the forlorn space where my shadow lies

in wait of her emerald eyes,

window to a world enchanted.


From the depths of a forgotten night,

She called forth my own forsaken light,

that by her grace I may be granted

to see, through my own emerald eyes, 

her world enchanted.



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