Poetry of a Conlanger

Thursday, November 24, 2005

Palely Untitled

She knows there’s something there,
But what, exactly?
Brushing her hair out of her eyes,
Squinting ahead into the fog,
She seeks.
What is it?
A wisp of smoke?
A twist of cloud plume?
A sputtering exhale?
Poor soul.
She’ll never find it;
Her searching is all in vain.


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