I heard it sung in distichs stripped from winds where raven’s black is tinted, saturnine allusions to an angel’s invocation as she falls.
I heard it in a verse above a sky without a star and in a voice as deep and shadowed as the tacit pleas of seconds chasing minutes in pursuit of where the hours passed away.

I read revealed in quatrains vague and pallid absolutes, diluted proofs coerced from superseded years in sonnets told by gods ignored.
I read from pages bleached in tears the inward speech of demons stealing syllables from epitaphs of people loved and passed.

In the harmonies of sorrow play the chords of healing scars.
In the lyrics written by the squalls of winter storms and sung as eulogies for memoirs penned in better days the rhythm of a warmer breath repeats in concert with the pulse of those of us who bleed in cold.

So when I hear the slow procession of a sunset making room for moonless nights, a funeral for summer songs and melodies of flower blossoms, I listen for the voice that sings to tell me I can cry, and in a silence of the sacrifice I take my refuge here behind the choir of tears.

#paris #pantheon

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