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

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Eyelids may shut, 
To enclose us within our dreams,
Breathing suspended, 
Ghosts may sleep on, 
Undisturbed 
By the long reaching arm of fragrance,
But there is one gateway remains, 
Completely unguarded, 
An open well shaft 
Falling straight to the soul.
The voice, the ear.
The pegasus of sound, 
Softly feathered and floating, 
Descends unimpeded 
To those depths of incandescent brilliance.
And riding bareback, 
A host of invisible messengers, 
Unobserved, 
Silently informing secrets.
The gentle currents of their language 
Adding a subtle,
Yet vibrant symphony. 
I hear not a sweet melody alone,
But accompanied 
By a choir of angels.
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