Slow to arrive, a crystal grip has today clenched its fist.
Reaching into the lush heart of a sheltered courtyard it steals the soul of
Lady Acanthus. No longer resplendent in her flounced emerald ball-gown, she now
reclines in an ungraceful heap on the cold, grey slate.
I like the harsh reality of this piece, sadness too. And I love the frosted picture as well...
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