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


At the merest hint, we tremble,
As whispering nature, 
In mute humility so restrained,
Ignores that beauty we adore,
And cloaked beneath a decorous grace,
Our awe is thus by her contained,
Designed and distant from our days,
Touching her face, but in human ways,
Politely and discretely,
Comforted from harm,
Heads buried in delicate sensibility,
Reading the absurd, appreciative word,
Held at the length of protective arm,
Spelled on the tip of tepid tongue,
Smothered with gentility,
Concealed, entombed in darkened rooms,
Cowering from recognition,
Inside this margin of skin and womb,
Sprawls indeed, the same wilderness,
Within our heart moves a restless stampede, 
Her blooded hooves thundering in our veins,
Those beams of sharp, unreasonable sunlight 
Gleam brightly from our eye, 
Vast, mindless oceans of power,
Surge and crash upon our shore,
And her careless hurricanes of death,
Inspire our unbridled season for more.
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