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Rob Adams
Settled atop a scabrous stone, rippled with mossy strands, weathered coarse throughout aeons of shepherding wayward travelers, I perch, a progeny of the vast woodlands. It is here I inspire, the cartographerís eidetic recollection the artistís dexterous finesse, and the bardís merry wit. Apolloís glow cast overhead, chasing warmth into my roots, I catch the whispers of the deep Autumn zephyr, many by the birds, in the arias they sing to me. The regal pace of the stag in unbroken upon my reveal. My contrast goes undisguised, we are all akin to Her mindís eye model. I am a child of Her design, with knots and dashes etched into my skin. The birds will continue their melodies, and many others will hearten the likes of the cartographer, the artist, and the bard, but when I cease, they will never find another of me.

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