She asked the softest questions about number I believed were hard as future rust.
I learned from what she asked, my answers would soon dry. In the room with us
was canvas, stretched across some wooden bars. I worked on composition
far from challenges. She wondered whether I had saved, and I acknowledged
that, of course, a little bit. She warned me not to fear. I bore the nickname
Baby Angel, as it fit my clothes. It fit the future beyond old paths. A color
I had not pronounced came forth, as wind propelled. The loft felt full
of sleep. Accordingly, the light diminished where it had served. And color fell
across the page. Whole green endowments strained to have occured. No minute
after breeds the needed math. Stalled wisdom rises from the place before
one looks away. Wholeness per usual, deferred.
Auras derived from their root systems, mild glow above the underground,
and you there, silvery or so
Sheila E. Murphy
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