BY GRACE STRANGE
Smooth as candle wax, as it lights ink scrawled across paper, yellowed as time flies.
As they’re raveled together their shape forms.
An elven cloak, the stem like a horn.
Their crisp yellow colour, a portal into a fantasy world.
Birds look giant to this fantasyland, much like a horse.
They scatter the elven soldiers across the dew encrusted grass,
in the fresh autumn air.
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