sketch
59/100
Lines listlessly bleed from a pencil Cold gray eyes pull and scan Those brilliant fields That one burnt tree Those children playing on a picnic blanket Cirrocumulus clouds stretch into the horizon It smells like honey, dirt and sun The toppings of Spring The paper imbues these hues Though not perfectly nothing captures this moment perfectly Even now its changing An airplane breaks high overhead A cars door slams in the distance Everything changes No matter how fast Im sketching
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