In the quiet cradle of twilight,
Aloneness weaves its somber threads,
Dusk, a solitary painter, swathes
the sky in mournful shades.
Her brushes dipped in shadow,
streaking sorrows wide and deep,
A canvas vast, where whispers of
the night begin to seep.
Silken shadows drape the earth,
like veils of melancholy lace,
Longing, a tender specter, walks
with a haunting, silent grace.
Her eyes, two burning citadels, hold
stories never told,
In her hands, clutches tight, the
broken dreams that she enfolds.
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