Brushstrokes of Time
echos still against caverns of memory
resonance of a voice yet unheard
filling skies aloft in their blackness
with shadows of fortnights now passed
over indigo hills in thought's moonlight
and shadows of dawns nearing in silence
to orange-hued canyons and blue mountains
and filling shadows with brushstrokes of time
that steal their existence as things separate
from "Crumbs of the Mind"
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