deidre of the sorrows

beauty

rendered in pencil

shades of flowing gray veiled in mystery

i know your name, deirdre of the sorrows,

but it means little to me

ink on a page

words on my lips

nothing more

still, it hints at stories yet to be told

stories i wish to hear

maybe someday i'll ask

but for now, though i wring my hands in shame,

i am content to sit in awe

of a master craftsman's work

Erica Vess, 1994


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