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


Chosen with care,
A rounded flatness,
Befit to spin,
These stones,
These words.
Set in motion,
To a brief,
Rhythmic flight,
A skip, a skid, a skim,
Bouncing out
From the shore,
Yet all too fast,
Only the footprints linger on,
An arrow-head
Of expanding rings,
Point toward the last,
Marking the place,
The moment of sinking,
As words that play
Upon our thinking,
Can only trip
Across the skin,
Until, all spent,
They drop within,
Beneath the superficial layer,
Heading down,
To bed of prayer.

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