her night was ephemeral

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between the trees,
in the hollow crooks of leaves,
through the watchful eyes of daisies
and over the rivers bend,
a little girl sat,
whispering tales of sorrow
into the wind
and lake full of tears -
her night was ephemeral,
but her days were never ending.
she found love in the moon -
in it's haunting white gaze,
a sort of odd comfort,
unlike the harsh burning glare
of the sun's endless rays:
people talk and taunt
in the summer's heat,
but in the watchful gaze of the moon,
wounds heal,
and angels fly.

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