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Saturday 9th March 2019

-fore art, thou Wordsmith-

-fore art, thou Wordsmith- How be-it, the very soil upon my brow, is akin unto my hands, betwixt thy spine. Doth not the Quill aspire to inscribe; for what manner, hast mine blood contrived.. What looming shadow, dear faint echo; O' saintly spectre, why must thee chide. Shall I disquietly tolerate, circumspectly; wilt not thine [..more..]

STW#47885 | Be the First to Comment | on March 9, 2019 - 4:51 pm - Life - by

-fore art, thou Wordsmith-

-fore art, thou Wordsmith- How be-it, the very soil upon my brow, is akin unto my hands, betwixt thy spine. Doth not the Quill aspire to inscribe; for what manner, hast mine blood contrived.. What looming shadow, dear faint echo; O' saintly spectre, why must thee chide. Shall I disquietly tolerate, circumspectly; wilt not thine [..more..]

STW#47884 | Be the First to Comment | on March 9, 2019 - 4:51 pm - Life - by

-fore art, thou Wordsmith-

-fore art, thou Wordsmith- How be-it, the very soil upon my brow, is akin unto my hands, betwixt thy spine. Doth not the Quill aspire to inscribe; for what manner, hast mine blood contrived.. What looming shadow, dear faint echo; O' saintly spectre, why must thee chide. Shall I disquietly tolerate, circumspectly; wilt not thine [..more..]

STW#47883 | Be the First to Comment | on March 9, 2019 - 4:51 pm - Life - by

-fore art, thou Wordsmith-

-fore art, thou Wordsmith- How be-it, the very soil upon my brow, is akin unto my hands, betwixt thy spine. Doth not the Quill aspire to inscribe; for what manner, hast mine blood contrived.. What looming shadow, dear faint echo; O' saintly spectre, why must thee chide. Shall I disquietly tolerate, circumspectly; wilt not thine [..more..]

STW#47882 | Be the First to Comment | on March 9, 2019 - 4:51 pm - Life - by

-fore art, thou Wordsmith-

-fore art, thou Wordsmith- How be-it, the very soil upon my brow, is akin unto my hands, betwixt thy spine. Doth not the Quill aspire to inscribe; for what manner, hast mine blood contrived.. What looming shadow, dear faint echo; O' saintly spectre, why must thee chide. Shall I disquietly tolerate, circumspectly; wilt not thine [..more..]

STW#47881 | Be the First to Comment | on March 9, 2019 - 4:50 pm - Life - by

-fore art, thou Wordsmith-

-fore art, thou Wordsmith- How be-it, the very soil upon my brow, is akin unto my hands, betwixt thy spine. Doth not the Quill aspire to inscribe; for what manner, hast mine blood contrived.. What looming shadow, dear faint echo; O' saintly spectre, why must thee chide. Shall I disquietly tolerate, circumspectly; wilt not thine [..more..]

STW#47880 | Be the First to Comment | on March 9, 2019 - 4:50 pm - Life - by

-fore art, thou Wordsmith-

-fore art, thou Wordsmith- How be-it, the very soil upon my brow, is akin unto my hands, betwixt thy spine. Doth not the Quill aspire to inscribe; for what manner, hast mine blood contrived.. What looming shadow, dear faint echo; O' saintly spectre, why must thee chide. Shall I disquietly tolerate, circumspectly; wilt not thine [..more..]

STW#47879 | Be the First to Comment | on March 9, 2019 - 4:50 pm - Life - by

-fore art, thou Wordsmith-

-fore art, thou Wordsmith- How be-it, the very soil upon my brow, is akin unto my hands, betwixt thy spine. Doth not the Quill aspire to inscribe; for what manner, hast mine blood contrived.. What looming shadow, dear faint echo; O' saintly spectre, why must thee chide. Shall I disquietly tolerate, circumspectly; wilt not thine [..more..]

STW#47878 | Be the First to Comment | on March 9, 2019 - 4:48 pm - Life - by

-fore art, thou Wordsmith-

-fore art, thou Wordsmith- How be-it, the very soil upon my brow, is akin unto my hands, betwixt thy spine. Doth not the Quill aspire to inscribe; for what manner, hast mine blood contrived.. What looming shadow, dear faint echo; O' saintly spectre, why must thee chide. Shall I disquietly tolerate, circumspectly; wilt not thine [..more..]

STW#47877 | Be the First to Comment | on March 9, 2019 - 4:46 pm - Life - by

-fore art, thou Wordsmith-

-fore art, thou Wordsmith- How be-it, the very soil upon my brow, is akin unto my hands, betwixt thy spine. Doth not the Quill aspire to inscribe; for what manner, hast mine blood contrived.. What looming shadow, dear faint echo; O' saintly spectre, why must thee chide. Shall I disquietly tolerate, circumspectly; wilt not thine [..more..]

STW#47876 | Be the First to Comment | on March 9, 2019 - 4:43 pm - Life - by