In the Moment

Hyacinth garden



Sometimes words just possess the soul and seemingly sing.
When written on paper fans or pieces of silk.
Or when they just flutter like eyes or like butterfly wings.
Smooth and sweet like a mother’s nourishing milk.

All these syllables they are mere variations on a theme.
So that those childhood passages give us something back.
As are the grandeur in columns of the Parthenon without a seam.
They themselves borrow a choral while they echo to ears that lack.

So much of what we say or write can only comply with being literary retread.
Lost love’s inside journals of sorrow, and the unspoken aches.
In the letters that are never uttered or written they just pass as unsaid.
Remember your words are the key; tell someone you love them in the moment that it takes.

Author's Notes/Comments: 


is that a great # or what?

i digress

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