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A good story or epic poem,
Flows like water, cold and clear.
While the fall cometh only in increments,
The absence of color signals its arrival.
The cool precision of words laid to rest,
Capturing a moment in time before they retire.
The thickets of the dense woods shut me in,
Whereas inspiration from the words let me out.
Whistling moan of the winter wind through half-naked trees,
The rattles of spent leaves serve to validate.
The force of the words soothe and comfort,
Or yet again, generate an eternal debate.
Life at times so arduous, my admonition,
Thus immerse my soul in the prose;
Or head deep into the woods,
So be it, this is my position.
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