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

HOWLING AT THE MOON

Once more, I'm left here,
Howling at the moon,
The elusive scent of love
That so captivated me,
Broken up,
Dispersed,
On the winds of uncertainty.

That call I hear in answer,
Is it the soft voice of
A distant soul,
Or just my own faint echoes?

The last cold glimpse
Of the moon
Slips out of sight
Behind the enclosing
Silhouette of the mountains.

Darkeness,
Silence returns,
Save for the amused mockery
Of an occasional night bird,
Questioning my wisdom.
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