Secret, Wistful
Maybe there is nothing to surrender, ( stolen apples, still life fences, planes )Once one has surrendered to the dance
Twined together in an ancient, seasonal trance to turn and spin
Once we were so close as breaths, breathed deep within,
Illusion often feels like something, ( no ? )
Fingertips of secret censure, smoky censers rise inside our eyes, (we ? )
Erase all trace of gone before the skies are hidden in plain view
Invisible moments appear inside the words, ( the worlds ? )
You hear sibilants of sounds like sighs the lows and highs persist
Like a sacred lavender bracelet wound around your wrist,
Memories image resonates softly then like some secret wistful flame .
Poetry by Chaucer Whethers
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Written on 2018-01-23 at 19:40
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