sixteen

Is our treasured meeting buried too long?
Our choir soaring once strong in song
now dumbly stilled, denied that reprieve
begets unravelling distance to grieve.

Shall I no longer see Aphrodite’s face?
Am I denied that harbour of hearts grace;
now silted closed from lacking embrace
that each mocking memory seems disgrace.

What sound if your laughter I cannot hear?
All earthly music seems crashing bell
lacking harmony from your voices’ well
that spills a weave of beauty’s spell.

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