When last breath of windsongs play the leaves, the days of truth and lilac blooms is known. In shadows of cloistered memories, new wine, old lace, some fires will still burn. Love is like that sometimes, taking what it doesn't need, needing what it leaves behind. In those secluded moments when all that's left is the stirring of our heart, no righteous masks can then be worn, and unselfish love remembered, leaves lust forever scorned. copyright January 1999 Judith Anne Labriola
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