as the day releases her grip on the weighty verdant nature of things..
and as night slowly comes to take her hand there, at dusk- calm cool and waiting -
he so fully expansive dressed in moon light and perfumed with the decadent odor
of the crushed flowers of summer's days...
watching them...I am convulsed by a silent cry-
ancient and insistent..like a shard of glass once buried so deep-
layers of living intent on dulling it's edges and encouraging my
a silent scream escapes my soul...
and as he (night) caresses her (day) hand,
beginning the familiar dance of the passage of life,
I search the stars, with whispered tears, and a bruised and
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Comments about this poem (Whispers by Ann Dow )
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
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