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Weak December sun burning my eyes;
The sun’s feeble heat is welcome in this frigid season.
Light melting the hoarfrost by the zenith, except in the shadows,
Where it builds into crystalline castles and frosty dungeons.

Driving by the shores, glistening with diamond-tipped waves.
Incoming flows ripple and gently shush against the hard-packed sand.
Footprints leave faint marks, and are quickly washed.

Desolate, isolated. This is perfection.
Eyes squinting against the harsh glare, the salt-tipped wind;
Self-indulgent torture of beauty.
Leaving this forlorn shore, imprinting removable marks of being.

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