Lone Aviator

Sea waves in queue rise,
Like strings of silver horses,
Cloudy sky above still lies,
As foam in water courses.

In frost all is dull,
Ivory, starch, or pearly,
Calm charms of those lull,
As hoary hair of aunt’s so curly.

Bright, pure or solid,
harsh cold, alabaster soft,
molds air dead stolid,
Brooding I hover aloft.

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