no 11

Despite the light’s
warm clarity,

that was the darkest summer
of my life.

She approached,
then fled,

then approached,
then fled.

An illusion like shimmering
black silk

in the night
below her pale face.

A mirage;
she was a mirage.

And I chased her,
finding nothing but shadow.

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This entry was posted in 2012, Multimedia, Numbers, Poetry and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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