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

HOW

Softer still,
Than dandelion whispers,
A more gentle falling
Upon your ear,
Than a flight of
Angel feathers,
The mighty silence
Of listening,
A quicksilver shimmering,
Brushing that same
Sweet silk,
Glistening,
Between these words.
I bid you hear,
The eternal echoes 
Of this heart,
Shapeless,
And free,
More common
Than dust,
As precious
As starlight,
Warmer than
Ten thousand suns,
Do I love thee.

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