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

THIS

It is this silence
That contains me,
A vessel
Without walls,
In a stillness
Beyond the memory
Of dreams,
Knowing
Forgetfully,
The cusp
Of this moment
Without horizons,
Vanishing at will
To flow
Into every waiting heart,
To hold
Each empty hand,
How could there
Come an end
To this?
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