The early morning fog,
paints the greenwoods
an ashen shade of pallid dawn,
silhouettes arising, slithering
through the dark abyss,
ebbing away,
like some kind of yearnings
drifting in the memory 
of a forgotten dream
echoing the concealed limns,
aching the heart
to bleed into innumerable verses,
engraved onto the pristine sheets,
relentlessly..

(Full poem in caption)

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