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Spiraling Sounds
by Deborah Russell


in the night
of a fragile, paper thin moon;
my thoughts are weightless
and useless
against the stars
the rain falls-
its spiraling sounds
cut the ear,
sounds in a thousand blades
of death and politics
near echoes that stream
form rivulets
across the ground...
if I had paints
this night would never
slip away
and you would
leave a cache of dreams
I would clasp but
with an open hand
our poem is falling
verse by verse
words
no one else will hear...
our conversations
swallowed and forgotten
still the pulse
of unspoken sighs
runs deep beneath
the skin of moonlight
and its melody plays the same
as the first time
I read your lines
and heard this city
sigh your name

 

 


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