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  • Mending

    He was like an old worn book with a

    severed spine.

    The threads that bound him;


    In search of a place to shelve his

    forlorn burden,

    he cloaked himself in his painting.

    He wore it like a vibrant shadow.

    Brushing familiar oils,

    he stroked at lingering grief.

    With pastel hues

    he canvassed the tear that bore him.

    Fusing the final touches of rich, creamy oils,

    he unleashed her cameo smile

    filling his palate;

    breaking his spine.

    Pamela Wilonski

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