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Black
She appraises the blue cotton sky
Through stylish blackened windows
That frame her room, her eyes, her life.
They push back the crudely inquisitive
Blots of color that threaten to mar
The pure blackness.
They restrain the sunlight that dares
To slant across her
Gloved fingers clasped around the neck
Of a wineglass, filled
With thick black coffee
Not weakened by the sugar that masks the bitterness
Not diluted by the milk that ruins the black.
Black.
The absence of color and the denial of it.
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This article has 7 comments.
My compliment was heartfelt.
Ah, my friend. Have you not read Marcuz Zusak's The Book Thief, you have not lived to the fullest extent. The story is narrated beautifully by death.
Again, thanks. I wasn't sure how this piece would be seen. I'm not really very sure myself what the point really is. But I'm glad you read it and could appreciate it.
I may be showing a lot of ignorance here, I have not heard of Marcus Zusak. Who is he?
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Favorite Quote:
"il piu nell' uno," (according to Emerson, an Italian expression for beauty)<br /> <br /> "Unable are the loved to die, for love is immortality" ~Emily Dickinson<br /> <br /> "The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain" <br /> ~Kahlil Gibran