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Birth of Starful Gold




The birth of golden paints
stroke the land
a Woodbridge wine.

The misted moon stalks the bay,
in a timeless, mystical way.

Upon salted breezes I am entranced,
a newly seventh sense now enhanced.

Half Moon Bay I have become,
In lit circulation I'm left succumbed.


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Comments


  • Seawulf
    November 4
    Edit | Reply
    I like this poem, but i really like the line "The misted moon stalks the bay".