Thursday, February 19, 2009


the answer:
a poetry of still hummingbirds
& roses
washed up on the beach
a desire to hear
the chanted psalms
ancient tongue by candlelight
to lean against the masonry
of millenia
long settled places...
as i pluck
the last rose of summer
before the chill wind does
i hear no more sound
save the severed vine
(the silence of hurt)

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