By Jean Bush
I feel your words upon me
As they race across the page,
A running sense of wonder
Even late upon this age.
The whispered flips of paper
As the pages turn and burn
Setting me afire,
It seems I never learn.
The secrets whispered to me
As I pause and try to hear,
Are echo cries of memory
That are laden wet with tears.
The hardened cover closes
Shutting down the riot sight.
I nod and ponder deeply
Slipping off into the night.
Poetry on its own, true poetry needs only the images created by the imagination. Having said that, I love the way Jean helps my imagination by fusing hers with mine.
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