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

OLD WINE

I remember knowing
Warmth & desire,
Glowing embers
Of long distant fire,
To share a pillow,
Limbs entwined,
A new flavour
For an ancient wine,
As passion stirs
From banishment,
Wearing
Its ill-fitting coat
Of chastity,
Its wild obsession,
Shunned,
Its myopic vision,
Unwelcome,
Its choicest words
Best left unsaid,
Still unspoken
Inside the head,
Hoisted,
In their own
Eternal wondering,
Perhaps discretion
Is the better friend,
Without beginning,
Or pointless end.


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