The Heart of a Poet

Dried leaves,
Autumns township
Kindled by a night of prayer,
In his own shade
The seared breast
Laced with desires spine,
The Poet’s golden horn swoons,
Spreading its wings
Turning in, a silenced pedestal
Fragranced with bouquets
Of invading beauty
Until, the heart opens it
And we all follow…

 

 

(c) A Hannan

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