gold

March 22, 2014

the sound of soft shoes

on the wooden floor,

the sound of a finger on the string-

five years become ten,

ten become twenty…

how thin the air, how innocent the sky-

we must never become too old to dream

lest we confuse an old coat

with the allness that we are.

the soul grows too grand for

the body to contain.

the dross washes away

and we become gold.

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