But I was weary during the month of May.
And though the coming of summer
spread light by the promise of change,
Those dead flames contained
a harrowing quality. And the memory of thee
however far, still haunting.
So when I heard those four walls call,
almost deafening in their song:
harping, harping
grating upon my soul. I know
much of what I'd thought been freed,
was, in fact, still enclosed.
I wasn't afraid to face the old
I was afraid the old would resurface
within the new.
1 comment:
(in response)
to what heights ascendeth beauty
windows on a storming sea
and falling soft as downy sleep
silken strands so fiery
such music to a weary ear
soothing notes of laughter
that glittering joy follows after
kisses the air to clear
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