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Artist
The Sketchbook's Secret
The artist's hand moved slow and light,
Turning shadows into sight.
With charcoal stick and kneaded craze,
He drew her through a smoky haze.
He caught the worry on her lip,
The thoughts she wouldn't let slip.
But round her head, he had to draw
The winged dreams he truly saw.
They fluttered out of graphite dust,
Born of longing and of trust,
A silent, fluttering escape,
Taking their ethereal shape.