True Love (Superstitions #4)
The mist seperates, The moon, Cuts it like a knife. A maiden dances, On All Summer's Eve. She staring at her reflection, In the crystal shimmer of the lake. Seeing a face behind her, Cast there by moonlight and magic. Is it the face of her one true love? Why does she trimble with fear? Could it be the call of his dark eyes? Or is it the under lying stinch of blood. Written January 31st, 2002 © on Jan 31 2002 02:52 PM PST, Phyllis Thompson 0 • 8
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"The mist seperates,..."