Only earth angels hear the tender rippling

of hearts.

In the pounding rain we bare our quills,

reappear from veiled cages.

Bruises of the soul are slow to heal

but we are  indifferent to pain.

Gardenias fill the  room with mortality,

petals of sweet secrets nurtured by the

rhapsody of recollection.

Surrendering dreams makes us still,

and poetic breath dies with us.

We long for the  scent of earth

infused in deep roots,

 to hear again  the swaying chimes on  limbs

of a slender Linden  synchronized for the

twilight hours.

 

 

49 thoughts on “the twilight hours

          1. LoL 😆 yes, those naughty head elves have a vivid imagination but they like getting carried away in a story or poetry. It’s a natural affliction, probably genetics. It’s likely also from all those hours I spent staring out the window at school instead of doing my work assignments.

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