the twilight hours

House of Heart

Only earth angels hear the tender rippling

of hearts.

In the pounding rain we

bare our quills to the world,

reappear from our veiled cage.

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 a rhapsody of recollection.

Surrendering dreams makes us still,

a vast wasteland where  all  poetic breath

dies with us.

We long for the clean scent of Spring,

the rust  smell of earth infused in deep roots,

to  hear again  the swaying chimes on the limbs

of a slender Linden,

synchronized for the twilight hours.

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