For Hymn, the Bell Tolls

Rovinj

 

Toll, ancient bell,

Ring home my wayward heart;

Sing to my soul,

Lest from the truth I part.

Chime, ancient notes,

To strum my wand’ring strings;

Peal forth your hymn,

To give my spirit wings.

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For What She’s Worth

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Fallen, but not discarded.

Her value lies not in her

ability to contain

her chaos within set seams,

clutch remnants when brute tidal

waves beat against her dormers,

but in her audacity

to bloom down in the trenches.

 

Thin Ice

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Her thaw has begun.

But before he can dive into

her soul,

plumb the depths of her spirit,

he must first touch her heart.

And there,

he’s on

thin ice…