Every time I hear them ringing,
Singing carols in the night,
Stories whisper ancient mingling,
Fingerlings swimming in light,
Touching darkness all permissive,
Emptiness through all must past,
Cold, apathetic, dismissive,
Unimaginably vast,
Bearing gifts of what there was and is,
Strikes the eye,
Strikes the mind,
Moves the being,
Towards the memory of what could be.
Monday, March 31, 2014
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