Poverty glistened languidly on his clothes,
Yet somehow I couldn't find even a vestige of her
In his tender, nut-brown intelligent eyes, or
The deft movements of his hands as he carved out
The deity in lustrous granite as dark as him.
Even she would agree with me as he smiled up at me,
A roguishly handsome simper that would
Capture the heart of a true woman. Perusing my eyes,
He spoke: I have to carry on my father's
Legacy. Indeed, I thought, sobering at the sight of the
Carbide-tipped chisel that drained his soul.
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𝔏𝔦𝔟𝔢𝔯𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫 | ✔
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