MY EIGHT WONDER

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The sky is silent,
humble, still —
It's waiting,
like a babe in a cradle,
Trying to turn by will.

The stars are dim,
sorrowful, grim —
They're dying slowly,
like a disease spreading
Through their pristine bodies.

The skies are
hollow beauty;
their reflections form
the ethereal sea —
That's an eighth wonder for me.

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