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The book of whispers.
Sentences that write themselves, with no need for superlatives
Call blindly through the waiting mist, where eveningís patience ever lives,
Though never seeking for replies, they write with so much confidence
The book of whispers tells no lies, and still holds so much relevance,
With braided continuity, each sentence holds on to the last
Like ink stained paragraphs that bind the futureís writings to the past,
And each page turns with a whisper, through the avenues of time
Into portals of perception like the doorways to a rhyme.

Painted paragraphs of passion breathing deeply in the shade
Give each moment the impression of a dream thatís being made,
Though there is no need for slumber while the clock ticks on the wall
Just a timeless sense of wonder at each secondís whispered call,
And each second links together like the chain mail of a knight
As the moon shines on his armour with such haunting whispered light,
For the book feels such contentment with each star embroidered phrase
That its whispers dance together on the seamless twilight haze.

There are chapters for completion that are not yet written down
Before the Summerís golden ink has turned to shades of brown,
And last winterís silver daggers are a distant fading dream
Though each season carries whispers, they are not all that they seem,
For each dormouse whisper sleeps within a solitary place
That is painted with the shades of day, and woven spider lace,
Until the blossom book reopens, and they dance upon each line
With the finesse of forever, and with lifeís eternal shineÖ

By 33whitby4654

© 2019 33whitby4654 (All rights reserved)


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