A poem simply sounds the bell, of that which words could never tell.


It would appear that not all know
The songs that call our inner ear,
From chambers seldom seen aglow,
Yet ever present, ever near.

Those darkened crypts within the heart,
Whose heavy walls keep us from fear,
Protect when love is torn apart,
Are where, withdrawn, we'll crying hear.

A plaintive, faintly whispered air
From once exultant throat now trills,
The notes that stream no courage dare
To dream beyond the cage it fills.

The bluebird shines, resplendent still,
But sapphire quills no more take wing,
As every bar of music spills
A sadness, difficult to sing.
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