In a black velvet box,
the fragile glass heart sleeps;
its face shrouded in darkness.
You are there, somehow, guided by fate.
Treasure hunter seeking a prize,
gently opening the lid...
By caressing the cold surface,
it awakens to your touch.
You hold it close, warming it with love.
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This poem won an honorable mention in July 2004  | ID: 691563
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