18. A Candid

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I spot a faded, dingy coverlet, In a dusty corner of my attic.
It's worn and torn,
It's slightly soiled.
It's slightly coiled.

But yet I'm drawn to it,
For some reason I can't explain to myself.
Yet I move forward to touch it, inspite of myself.
I'm hesitant, I don't know why.
As I stare at its dull golden-black pattern, so wry.

It makes me sad,
This old coverlet, which is now a rag.
I look more closely,
And notice the intricate embroidery.

Ravaged, but splendid.
Savage, but candid.

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