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Dec 20, 2009

Poem # 8 Quant Jewels

Quaint Jewels

The faint tingle of bells whispering to the wind,
Curtains fly out to meet the fresh air blowing west,
Silence foiled by the curling of ashen paper,
Escaping the quiet fire and rolling over the Chest.

Flames lick the old box of wonder curiously,
Heat pouncing maliciously on the carvings,
Smoked wood scents the breezy sea twist,
Yellow is sets ablaze the ancient art on the box’s wings.

Charred black wood, and peculiar velvet ribbon
Surrounded the glowing lustre of mysterious secret
That the box reveals through a fissure from fire,
As if time and glory themselves have been reset.

Old and quaint, emeraldine light they spark,
A hidden burn of colours sheltered by damage and evil,
They were quaint jewels protected ferociously,
By the forces of nature – feral, hurt and medieval.


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