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

NOW

That soft, 
Fleeting kiss 
Of now,
Feather-light
Upon the cheek,
The sparse dusting
Of its sensation,
Escaping proof,
For eternity,
Melting between
The crevice-way,
Briefly visible
In all that is unseen,
Merits,
Though majestically,
Little more than
Probability,
That none
May confirm,
Yet stands
So bold
And proud
In memory.
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