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Click hereImages of Life
How does the world define itself?
How do we carry on through pain?
Can words describe hope's deepest well?
Or do we struggle, write, in vain?
A piece of parchment, ink, a quill.
I close my eyes and take a breath.
Your scent is in my bedroom still,
But every line becomes truth's death.
No poet's wordy sentiment
Can fully capture reason,
As well as images of life:
A drake, a duck, the season.
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