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Accustomed To The Sight

There’s a beach in Southwest Africa
Where, I’m led to understand,
Precious stones are washed ashore
And caught upon the sand.

And native tribesmen let them lay,
Since common to their world;
A diamond often skips a wave
As out to sea it’s hurled.

There’s a village in the Yukon hills
Where, through the darkest nights,
A luminescent banner flies
They call the northern lights.

The colors flash in brilliant hues
As through the stars they weave;
But to the native of the north
It’s just another eve.

There’s a home wherein a lady dwells
Whose beauty brightly beams;
Projecting virtue from within,
Her goodness gently gleams.

And often times her chosen man,
Accustomed to the sight,
Lets appreciation wane
And treats her less than right.

But vowing now to see her true,
He writes this simple rhyme;
He’s honored to be one with her,
And shall be for all time.

Picture of Wes Stephenson

Wes Stephenson

Author, motorcyclist, poet, and adventurer. Let's journey together.



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