Friday Unicorn






This poem was found online :


The Last Unicorn

Soft tendrils of a silver mane,

Brilliant blue eyes,

glistening like rain.

A touch of the softest of white,

A wonderous coat, shining so bright.

A spiraling horn, entwined with gold,

A gentle being that shall never grow old.

She prances within a moonlit glade,

Then among the tiny sprites she lay.

The purest of souls this being owns,

Always understands, never condones.

A heart so gentle, a love so strong,

She is one who will never go wrong.

A creature of hope, a heavenly sight,

This beast, this pure being of light.

She is the one with the golden horn,

She is the very last unicorn. –Krista Knutson


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