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


Set within a cabinet
Of walnut and tortoiseshell,
A soft, amber glow
Discretely illuminates
The science of the dial.
Nimble fingers
Twist & spin around
The black, knurled,
Bakelite knob,
Cracking the safe,
Tuning in,
Surfing the sound.
Amidst an ocean of noise,
A golden island
Rich with organic warmth,
A sepia toned voice,
Smooth and sweet as honey,
Spilling its magic,
Through the art deco grille.

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