The Invention of Sound

poem

There is a place,
beneath the rain,
where red wild flowers grow

It is a scheme,
far from the scenes,
of shore break nights ago

We never slept,
the feeling passed,
lost at the end of a decline

The letter sent,
inked permanence,
to the address that you left behind

In a far northern space,
where grace,
drips slowly off the sun

Find the time to say,
thank you very much for the fun

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