There was an idea, before,
A frozen glimmer of crsip intent

Some words hovered near,
Their rough shapes begging to be bent

But time was against us,
So they got bored and flew away

And the next thing I knew,
Plum night had turned into peach day

Tragic, the poems fleeting,
They melt as snow below the dawning

Leaving pages blizzard-blank,
With nary so much as a whispered warning

But within this fiasco,
A secure spark of arts finds her way

Onto thoughts, from under ashes
And so I pen her, smile, and call it a day

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