Look at its shine, (tell me its mine),
You could spin it upon a dime.
Round as a sphere, light as a dove,
A hollow darkened heart within;
Tense, fragile like a voice in love
With deepest red over its skin.
A curious thing, so very smooth,
Yet all surface with no true depth.
Hollow, oh so hollow


Still e’en if it be not so grand,
I know that is what I prefer;
Something to feel within your hand,
Something to which I can refer.
A perfect ball I see so clear,
December habit of our year.

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